


Still Searching

by sm_jl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, F/M, Horcrux Hunting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 66,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27508921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sm_jl/pseuds/sm_jl
Summary: She reached out and clutched the sleeve of his coat, realizing a second too late that he wasn't just turning away. He was turning to Disapparate. And she was now, unintentionally, going with him. Deathly Hallows AU.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 46
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> New to AO3, but if you’re impatient, this story is much further along on FFN. :) Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

“Ron! Ron, where are you going?”

She tore out of the tent after him, but the strength of her own Shield Charm had cost her several steps. The fact that every one of his strides was worth about three of hers didn’t help matters, either.

“Will you  _ stop_ _?”_ she demanded, raising her voice over the pounding rain as she chased him to the edge of their wards. It was pouring, and she was drenched in seconds. Her feet were slipping on the soggy grass, which only added to the struggle of keeping up with him. “ _RON_!”

“ _ What _ ?” he finally snapped back, whirling to face her.

“Come back,” she said again, hating how pathetic her request sounded.

His eyes flashed with uncharacteristic anger. “What for? As if you and Harry need a bloody sidekick dragging along. There’s nothing in that tent for me. I’m going home.”

“ _Nothing_?” she repeated incredulously. Hedidn’t answer but to take two more steps, and she followed, definitely outside of the wards now. “At least you have a home to go back to!” She was so angry she felt like she could spit nails at him, and was almost surprised only words were coming out. “At least you have a  _ family _ to go back to! We gave up everything to do this, together, and you’re just going to  _ leave_?”

“You don’t need me here. And I don’t need any more of this bullshit.” He waved his arm widely to indicate she wasn’t sure exactly what.

“I don’t  _ need you_?” she screeched, way too close to revealing the truth and too incensed to care. “ _That _ is bullshit, Ron!” She wanted to grab him and shake sense back into him, but he was clearly in no mood to be reasoned with. He scoffed and rolled his eyes and made to turn away from her again, but damn him, he needed to listen to her!

She reached out and clutched the sleeve of his coat, realizing a second too late that he wasn’t just turning away. He was turning to Disapparate. And she was now, unintentionally, going with him.

* * *

Hermione landed in a heap on the ground. She couldn’t remember ever apparating so sloppily, but then, she hadn’t been anticipating this one. She scrambled to her feet, wand at the ready, and saw Ron several metres away, doing the same. She almost breathed a sigh of relief that at least they hadn’t been separated, but they had, of course. Separated from Harry, if not each other. And Ron had been  _ trying _ to get away from them both, she reminded herself, the thought causing a painful twist in her stomach. Nothing was stopping him from disapparating again, leaving her completely alone, but he seemed frozen, at least for the moment.

She quickly took in their surroundings. They were still in a forest, but the trees didn’t look quite the same, and wherever they were, it was far enough away from where they’d been moments ago that it wasn’t raining, and there was no sign that it had been. “Where are we?” she demanded in a low voice.

“Dunno.”

“What do you mean you  _ don’t know_?” she hissed. “You’re the one who apparated us!”

“I...” Ron glanced around them, looking rather as confused as he sounded. “Didn’t really think of a place, just wanted to go  _ away_.”

“Oh, well,  _ that’s _ a lovely sentiment,” Hermione spat sarcastically. “And a fine way to get yourself splinched.”

“You’re one to talk about splinching,” Ron snapped back, indicating his not-quite-healed arm.

“I was trying to shake off a bloody Death Eater, what’s your excuse?”

“I didn’t bloody splinch us, so I don’t need one!”

There was the sound of leaves crunching behind them, and they both spun to the noise, wands high. A rabbit scampered into the brush, and Hermione sighed in relief before facing Ron with a scowl. “You’d best be going, I suppose.” She shouldn’t goad him, she knew, but she was going back to the campsite, with or without Ron. And given everything he had said in the past ten minutes, she was assuming it would be without.

He stood frowning at her, but otherwise not moving. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going back. Harry needs us. I followed you to say that, but if you’re too thick to see it, I’ll just go back on my own.” She crossed her arms over her chest, waiting for him to disapparate again. Frankly, she wasn’t sure why they weren’t already back at the Burrow, why that wasn’t his intended destination when he left, but she didn’t care enough to question it. He had left. That told her all she needed to know.

Ron heaved out an exasperated breath, then took the necessary steps to reach her. He put his hand firmly on her forearm. “I’ll make sure you get back okay, then I’ll go.”

She shook her arm free but didn’t move away from him. “Don’t do me any favors. If you want to go, just go.” She had to tilt her head back almost completely to look him in the eye, as close as he was to her.

“You’re alone in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a wand.”

“And whose fault is that?” He glared down at her, but grabbed her arm again.

“Let’s go,” Ron said with an air of finality. She stared up at him for another long moment, and when she didn’t see any weakening of his resolve, she raised her wand and apparated them back to the area of the campsite.

“Ah!” Hermione yelped in surprise, having already forgotten the downpour they’d left.

“Least we’re close,” Ron grumbled. He took a step back from her and raised his wand, muttering the detection spells that would reveal the campsite to them. Hermione took several steps in the opposite direction, casting the same spells and coming up empty. “Well?” Ron asked. “Aren’t we?” She barely heard his question above the rain and wind.

“Yes,” she said firmly. The tent was nearby. It had to be. Then she had an alternate thought. “Harry!” she called into the darkness.

Ron rushed to her and clamped a hand over her mouth. She was so startled that she forgot for a moment how cross she was with him. “What are you thinking?” Ron hissed. “What if we aren’t alone out here?”

She grasped at his wrist and pulled it from her mouth. “I’m thinking it will be much easier for Harry to find us than for us to find him.”

“Yeah, well, it’ll be easier for You-Know-Who to find us too if you don’t shut up.”

Hermione dropped his wrist. “I know the tent’s around here somewhere. You’ve seen me back. So you can go now.” She started walking again, continuing to cast the detection spells without looking back at Ron. She knew she wouldn’t hear it when he disapparated, over the sound of the storm, but she didn’t want to. The thought alone was enough to sting her eyes with tears that mercifully blended into the rain.

She turned to start a different direction and caught Ron’s hair, now a dark auburn from the rain, out of the corner of her eye. He was still standing in the same spot, watching her. “What?” she sighed, more relieved to see him there than she would ever admit.

“Why don’t we just set up and have a go in the morning?”

She rolled her eyes. “Set up  _ what_? We’ve left everything back in the tent.” She noticed his rucksack still slung over his shoulder and corrected, “ _I’ve _ left everything back in the tent.”

Ron was apparently ignoring her, already walking a circle around her and casting the same protective enchantments they had used before. “We can conjure a tent,” he said as he worked. “Nothing like what we brought, with the kitchen and whatnot, but something to keep the rain off.”

Hermione was annoyed to admit that Ron was right, but traipsing about in the rain when she had clearly misjudged where the campsite should be was not likely to get them anywhere but sick. “Fine,” she gritted out through clenched teeth, and aimed her wand at the flattest ground in the vicinity, conjuring a passable facsimile of the muggle camping tent her family had used on a trip when she was young. Satisfied, she stepped past the magical barrier Ron had created and used her wand to carve  _ H + R _ into a tree trunk. When she returned to the tent, Ron had his eyebrows raised. “In case Harry comes looking for us,” she explained. “It’s something Muggles do. It won’t give us away.” Ron only nodded, then cast an  _ impervious _ charm on the tent and ducked inside. She lifted the flap and went in after him, sealing it behind her.

It was nothing, of course, like the tent they had left behind nearly an hour ago now, just big enough for them to lie down in. But, as Ron had said, it was something to keep the rain off. He had rolled out his sleeping bag and duplicated one for her, and was now working on a drying charm on his clothes. She conjured one of the bluebell flames in between them and then copied his movements, removing her coat and drying the clothes underneath as best she could. They worked without speaking to one another, the tension returned now that they were, relatively, safe and dry. Hermione crawled into the sleeping bag and turned on her side, away from Ron. She heard him do the same, then he said softly, “We’ll find him in the morning.” After a long pause, he added tentatively, “Hermione?”

But she had no interest in talking to him any further, so she pretended to be asleep and didn’t respond.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hermione?” There was no response from her adjacent sleeping bag. He could tell that her breathing hadn’t quite evened out, so he knew she wasn’t actually asleep, but the message was clear enough.

What in the bloody hell had happened tonight, Ron mused to himself as he lay there staring up at the tent. A different tent than the one he’d been staring up at only an hour ago, in a different part of what was hopefully the same forest. Still with Hermione. Now without Harry, and without the locket.

That sodding locket.

There was no denying that the locket had a decidedly negative effect on him. More so, it seemed, than on Harry or Hermione, or maybe they were just better at hiding it.

But he couldn’t blame the horcrux, entirely. It was true that he’d whispered his misgivings about the whole mission to Hermione, when Harry was out on watch. And as for his fear of her choosing Harry over him, well, he’d been carrying those insecurities with him since Hermione had called Harry  _ fanciable_, over a year ago at school. But the horcrux made him forget about everything  _ but _ his doubts. He couldn’t think around them to more calming things, like the idea that this mission  _ had _ to work,  _ would _ work because Harry was in fact the bloody Chosen One. Or the memories of Hermione dancing with  _ him _ at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, looking for all the world like she  _ might _ not hex him if he could just gather enough Gryffindor courage to kiss her.

He turned to the side to look at her, the back of her hair still wet in spots she couldn’t quite reach with her wand. Merlin, but he’d cocked it up this time, hadn’t he? She had followed him away from the relative safety of their campsite, and for what? To convince his sorry arse not to abandon his two best friends in the middle of a dangerous mission?

Of course, that wasn’t  _ actually _ what he wanted to do. The longer they all had to deal with the locket, the longer the negative fog of thoughts lingered after he took it off, but he was seeing clearly now. Walking out of the tent, actually  _ leaving_, had made him realize how foolish the act was, how childish he’d been these past weeks. They would find Harry in the morning, and he would set things right. He and Hermione would both be understandably hacked off at him over the evening’s events, but if they could just get back to the mission, everything would be alright. They’d had a breakthrough, even, just before Ron had stormed out. Yes, they would find Harry and make a plan first thing tomorrow. There was no alternative.

He slept restlessly for what must have only been an hour or two, before it occurred to him as he woke yet again that one of them ought to be keeping watch. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Hermione to do it.

Ron quietly unzipped the tent and slipped outside. The rain had slacked off to almost nothing now, and he strained his ears, hoping to hear any sign that they were near to Harry. He thought fleetingly of sending a patronus, but that was much too risky, even if they were close. If they were further from where they had left than Hermione thought, and the message was intercepted...it would be disastrous for all three of them.

He hated to think about what Harry was doing and feeling, alone. He would have no reason to think anything but that he had been deserted by not one but both of them. Of course, Hermione hadn’t had anything on her when she followed him, other than her wand; hopefully Harry would know she hadn’t meant to leave. But then, what _would_ he think had happened to her? That Ron had changed her mind, out in the rain, or would he be worried something more sinister had happened?

Ron glanced over his shoulder, back at the tent. Hermione was sleeping soundly, and she would be safe behind the wards. It couldn’t hurt just to do a little more searching, tonight. He wouldn’t even have to leave sight of the tent, just make a wider lap than what they had covered earlier, casting the detection spells and hoping for the best.

After a half hour, though, he had come up empty. There was no sign of Harry, or the campsite, or the wards that had been the perimeter. Ron sighed and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He trusted Hermione and her ability to bring them back to the right place. Which made  _ him _ start to wonder about darker possibilities: had Ron’s apparition in the forest alerted someone to their presence? And if so, had they found Harry? Or had Harry, at the risk of being discovered, been forced to flee? And would he have followed whatever tenuous plan they’d created of where to go next, one that Ron was now kicking himself for being too surly to participate in crafting? Hermione would know all the important locations, but he had to worry what sort of hexes she would throw at him when he asked.

He was around the back side of the tent, making his way back toward it, when the flap suddenly flew open and Hermione burst out into the clearing. She looked quite disheveled and her eyes were wild as she spun around. Ron thought he caught a sigh of relief as her gaze found his, but before he could think too hard about it, she had raised her wand, and a flock of tiny birds—blue this time—shot towards him. He made to duck, but at the last moment, she flicked her wand and they veered off course, colliding with a tree and disappearing in a cloud of feathers.

“What the—“ he started, but clamped his mouth shut as she advanced on him.

“What in the bloody hell are you  _ doing_?!” she demanded, gripping fistfuls of his coat and shaking him slightly. He thought vacantly that she must be going mad out here, because she’d now sworn at him twice in one night, when it was more typical for her to be scolding him for his language, but then he looked down at her and realized she was expecting an answer.

“Looking for Harry,” he replied. “I couldn’t sleep, and the rain had stopped...” He trailed off. She had gritted her teeth and her face was flushed, eyes narrowed dangerously as she looked up at him.

“And you didn’t think how frightened I would be to wake up and find you  _ gone_?!” Shit; he hadn’t. “It would have been bad enough before,” she continued, her voice becoming more and more high-pitched as she bordered on hysterical, “but after tonight?! After you  _ left_?!”

He wanted to comfort her but wasn’t sure how to go about it. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. His hands hovered at his side, wanting to hug her but feeling like the gesture wouldn’t be well received at the moment.

Hermione let go of his coat to wrap her arms around herself, and he realized then that she’d dashed outside wearing only her thin jumper. Instinctively he reached out to run his hands over her arms, trying to warm her, and she flinched slightly but let him, if only for a moment.

“We should go back in,” she said softly, calmer now as she turned from him.

“I’m, er, going to stay out,” he replied tentatively as he followed her back to the tent. She stopped at the entrance and looked up at him, her expression equal parts scorn and fear. “Just to keep watch. Just in case.” He swallowed nervously. What had happened tonight was not going to disappear for her anytime soon, he realized. She wasn’t in his head, didn’t hear the impact of the horcrux, couldn’t trust that without its influence he would never have left her. Her and Harry, he amended to himself quickly.

She sighed and opened her mouth to speak, then apparently thought better of it. And without another word, Hermione disappeared into the tent again.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione woke early and joined Ron outside, eager to resume the search for their campsite. She couldn’t fathom what Ron was thinking, either last night or now. He seemed a completely different person this morning. No, that wasn’t right at all; he was a different person last night. In fact, his behavior was so uncharacteristic that he had thought nothing of leaving their tent in the middle of the night to look for Harry, not thinking for a moment the panic he would cause Hermione when she woke to his empty sleeping bag. This morning’s Ron she recognized: the one who was caring, and loyal, and sorry. The problem was that now she didn’t know how to trust which one was real. The Ron she knew had been buried for weeks under a foul mood borne out of hunger and general misery, appearing only in brief instances.

She glanced over at him as they walked parallel paths through the woods, a good fifteen or so metres apart. This tactic had been his idea, suggesting without actually saying it that they’d be better able to keep an eye on each other this way, which she fully understood was for her sake after the tongue-lashing she’d given him in the middle of the night. A well-deserved tongue-lashing, she thought to herself. He had tried to leave them mere hours before; in fact  _ had _ left them, which was how they had wound up in this predicament of traipsing the woods, looking for a way back to Harry.

It felt like they had covered more ground than could possibly conceal the campsite they had left behind the night before. Hermione was pushing back an increasingly creeping feeling of dread as they walked, but by mid-morning she couldn’t fight it any longer. “Ron,” she called softly, and motioned him over when he looked her way. She waved her wand to throw up a concealment charm around them and blinked back the tears she could feel forming. “Ron, I don’t think he’s here anymore.”

Ron swore softly but nodded his head in agreement. “Merlin, do you think something happened to him?” She noted that he didn’t ask whether she was sure they were in the right place—she  _was_ sure—though that could have just as easily been out of remorse for last night rather than actual confidence in her.

“I don’t know,” she sighed, looking around them once more as if everything would suddenly appear. Nothing seemed amiss in the area, but she doubted Death Eaters would have left anything behind. On the other hand, if Harry had been found, he would have almost certainly been captured, taken to Voldemort. And if that were the case, she couldn’t imagine Death Eaters taking the time to pack everything with care. Next to actually finding Harry, finding no trace of him was the best outcome. “We need to figure out what to do next. Including...” She almost choked on the words but made herself say them. “How long this is going to be a  _ we.” _

Ron’s eyes jumped to her in alarm. “What do you mean?”

She glared at him. “You know what I mean. I’m in this. I’m not sure you are, anymore.” She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “And if you’re eventually going to just bugger off to the Burrow and recover from your fake spattergroit, I’d rather you tell me now.” She wasn’t, honestly, trying to start a fight with him, but she assumed he would be angry at her words. But it had to be said. She didn’t want to be caught off guard again, like she was last night. If she was going to finish this mission alone, then so be it, but she wasn’t going to have him tag along only so long as it was convenient.

Ron’s face was relaxed, but his eyes were intense as he looked back at her. “I’m in this,” he replied, his voice a rough whisper. For one wild moment, she thought he might be talking about more than just the mission, but that was crazy, she scolded herself. He’d had plenty of opportunity to let her know how he felt, if he in fact felt the way that she hoped he did in her deepest daydreams, and had done nothing of the sort.

Hermione shook her head, refocusing on the problem at hand. “Okay. We need a plan, then.” She nodded to his bag. “Have you got parchment in there?”

“Er...yeah, I think so.” Ron knelt down with his rucksack and started digging through it, finally producing a crumpled piece of parchment and a bent quill that he handed to her.

“First things first, we need supplies. We need food.” Ron’s stomach grumbled on cue, and she almost smiled, but didn’t look up from the list she was jotting. She sighed but had to address the obvious. “What all do you have in your bag?” she asked. The beaded bag and everything it carried had disappeared with Harry, and Hermione could only hope he put it all to good use. Or that at the very least, if he couldn’t bring himself to go on alone, that he would use the resources to stay well hidden while Hermione and Ron finished what they had started as a trio. “That will give us a place to start, at least.”

Ron emptied the contents of his rucksack onto the ground between them. It was as much a jumbled mess as his Hogwarts trunk had always been. There was his sleeping bag (they’d vanished the duplicate one, along with the tent, that morning), a small portion of his clothes (and none of hers, obviously but unfortunately), another quill, a crushed package of cauldron cakes, a handful of coins (all wizarding currency, of course), and puzzlingly,  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. Hermione held it up. “How did you end up with this?”

Ron shrugged. “Was looking through it the other day and I must’ve put it in my bag instead of back in yours.” Well, it was  _ something _ for them to go on. That, along with what they had just learned of the sword of Gryffindor, would at least get them started on the right track. The more pressing matter was what to do about food and other essentials. Including for her, a change of clothes.

“We should address the immediate needs first,” Hermione said, trying to keep her tone business-like. “Have you any idea how that tent was created?”

“Well, there’s the extension charms, same as what you did to your bag,” Ron began. “But as for how they put a loo in there? No idea.”

Hermione sighed, thinking. It wasn’t strictly necessary, she supposed, for them to continue camping in the wilderness. But the Muggle money she had taken from her savings was, again, with Harry, so that eliminated the possibility of a hotel of any kind. The money Ron had on him was negligible, and in any case, they couldn’t exactly waltz into the Leaky Cauldron for a room. They couldn’t return to the Burrowwithout putting the Weasleys under even more scrutiny, and after months away, there would be no chance of Molly letting them out of her sight to keep hunting Horcruxes if they went back.

“What?” Ron asked finally, breaking the silence.

Hermione started and looked at him. “What, what?”

“I can practically hear the gears whirring in that big brain of yours,” Ron said, one corner of his mouth twitching in what might have become a smile if he weren’t fighting it, knowing their situation was anything but amusing. “What are you thinking?”

“That we need a place to regroup. Harry has everything, so you and I are starting over from scratch.” Ron winced at the implication, and Hermione huffed. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I’m not absolutely pissed at you about what happened last night, but if we’re going to do this, there’s no sense mincing words about it.”

Ron looked uncomfortable, but agreed. “Are we sure we can’t go back to Grimmauld Place?”

“Sure enough that I can’t see risking it. And there’s really nothing there.”

“Except food,” Ron countered wistfully. Hermione thrust the cauldron cakes at him, but he shook his head. “I’m fine. We need a plan first. I can wait.”

Hermione regarded him curiously, touched by the sentiment even though his stomach had growled again. “Honestly, I don’t even care for them. Go ahead.” He took the cakes, but tucked them back into his rucksack with the other contents.

“Maybe later. So not Grimmauld. One of the other Order member’s houses?”

Hermione shook her head. “They’ll want to know what we’re doing, and where Harry is. And they’ll all be being watched. We can’t risk it. We’ll do better in the Muggle world, I think, anyway. Especially—it’s not ideal, obviously, but—two of us will be easier to blend in than three.” Even as she said the words, it felt like a betrayal.

Ron seemed to be thinking along the same lines, but pressed on. “So what does that leave us with?”

There was one answer more obvious than any others, though potentially quite dangerous. Hermione took a deep breath. “My house.”


	4. Chapter 4

Ron goggled at her. “Your house?” he repeated. “Your Muggle house that you were so concerned would be found by Death Eaters that you sent your parents halfway around the world to get away from it?”

He saw Hermione stiffen at the mention of what she had done to her parents, but she nodded firmly. “I put charms on it after they’d gone. It’s been months. They either went there straightaway looking for clues about Harry and will have gone, or they’ve never found it.” Ron was still staring at her, speechless, so she rambled on, “I don’t mean we ought to stay long term, we should keep moving, but just a few days to repack and make a plan. And we’ll disguise ourselves, of course, check it out from a distance before we go in. Should be fairly obvious if there’ve been intruders; they’re not exactly subtle, are they, Death Eaters?” She finally paused and drew a breath. “Unless you’ve got another idea?”

“We haven’t got any Polyjuice,” Ron pointed out. “Or the Cloak.”

“No,” Hermione conceded. “But we can transfigure our looks, enough. Harry’s harder to hide.” They both fell awkwardly silent at the mention of their best friend. Hermione shook her head as if trying to rid the thoughts. “What do you reckon, then, blonde or brunette?” She had turned her wand on him.

“Oh, er...whichever you think, I guess.” He felt the odd tingling sensation against his scalp and he watched a long bit of his fringe shift color in front of his eyes, from his natural red to an ashy sort of brown. The feeling brought back memories of the lesson in which they had learned this particular spell, in which Harry had been stuck with one bright yellow eyebrow all afternoon and Ron had been unnecessarily horrible to Hermione, full of what had felt at the time like righteous anger and yet now seemed beyond insignificant. Insignificant not only to the whole current state of the wizarding world but also in the relationship between the two of them. “I’m sorry,” Ron blurted suddenly. He wasn’t sure he’d ever properly said it to her.

If Hermione’s thoughts had gone where his had, she didn’t let on. She looked up at him, slightly puzzled, though he couldn’t imagine why; even if she wasn’t thinking of their sixth year as he was, he owed her plenty of apologies for what he’d done in the last twenty-four hours alone.

“Not just about last night—I mean, I  _ am _ sorry about last night but it’s—it’s more than that, I—“ Of course, if she wasn’t thinking about sixth year—had blocked it from memory or forgiven him already or whatever—he didn’t want to dredge that up for her, so he settled for more recent transgressions. “I’ve been awful, these past weeks, I know. You haven’t deserved any of it, you or Harry. And I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, her eyes dropping from his. “I’m sorry, too. None of us have been on our best behavior lately.” She seemed like she might have more to say but didn’t, just moved her wand down to his face, and his eyes stung for a moment as she changed the color of those as well. Then she turned her wand around, and he watched as her hair changed blonde, the color pouring outward from her scalp down to the ends of her frizzy curls, which were longer than he’d ever seen them. “Nothing doing for the texture, though,” she said, giving him a rueful smile as she turned her eyes blue. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“I like your hair,” he told her, pulling a bit of it forward over her shoulder without thinking. Hermione sucked in a small, quick breath, and her whole body went rigid. “Sorry,” he said again, stuffing his traitorous hand into his coat pocket.

“We should get going,” Hermione said in a voice so small he barely heard it. “Twelve-oh-five Whitelocks Drive.” She held out her hand, and he took it, allowing himself to be whisked away into the unknown.

They apparated into a far-flung corner of a bustling bus station, unnoticed by all the passengers hurrying to their destinations. “It’s just a couple of streets over,” Hermione said to him in a low voice as they made their way towards the exit. Ron grabbed a discarded newspaper on the way out; it wouldn’t be much help in the way of magical news, but at least it was something. The sky outside was overcast but not atypical for this time of year; there didn’t seem to be the pervasive chill of dementors as there had been during their one foray into central London.

They turned the corner onto Hermione’s street, and it appeared quite deserted. He supposed at that time of day, most people would be at work. As they approached Hermione’s house, a small dog across the street began barking at them, and the older woman sitting on the porch with her tea looked up at them. She seemed as if she almost recognized Hermione, but quickly went back to the book in her lap.

“It’s here,” Hermione said quietly. Ron looked at the house. There were no outward signs that anything was amiss, and the house had been invisible until they were directly in front of it, so it seemed Hermione’s Fidelius charm was intact. Still, they both slipped their hands into their pockets to grip their wands as they went up the front walk. “ _ Alohamora _ ,” Hermione whispered to the front door, and he heard the heavy lock turn over. Slowly, cautiously, Hermione opened the door and they slipped into the entryway.

For the first time, it occurred to Ron how strange it was that in six years of friendship, he had never actually been to Hermione’s house. He didn’t think Harry had, either. But now was not the moment for him to dwell on such things.

He and Hermione stood back to back in the front hall, wands drawn openly now as they looked around. Everything looked to be in order inside as well; not so much as a picture frame was overturned, and a fine layer of dust covered the place. Clearly no one had been inside the house since Hermione had left it that summer. It was, therefore, a surprise when a strangled sob came from Hermione behind him.

Ron whirled to face her, alarmed, and expecting to see more than the blank wall she was facing. “Hermione?”

“They could have stayed,” she cried, her wand arm falling to her side. She turned to him, and her face was scrunched in anguish, tears pooling in her artificially blue eyes. “Look at this place! I could have protected them here.”

Even not looking quite like herself, the pain he could see and hear coming from her broke his heart. He tentatively reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, and she closed the rest of the distance, burying her face in his chest as she had done when she arrived at the Burrow after having shipped her parents off. And just as he had done then, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly.

“You know you did what was best for them,” he said softly, rubbing a hand against her back. “They’re safe where they are. And you still wouldn’t have stayed. They’d be so worried about you if they were here.”

“And instead, they don’t know I exist,” she muttered, her voice muffled by his coat.

“For now. Just for now.” He lifted one hand to stroke her hair. She sighed heavily and stepped away from him, wiping at her eyes. She raised her wand to herself and then to him, dropping the concealments.

“Do you mind if I go get cleaned up?” Hermione asked, still sniffling. Ron shook his head, and she pointed down the hall to her right. “The kitchen is through there, if you want to rummage around.” She started in the opposite direction from which she had pointed, and he heard her footsteps traveling higher as she went upstairs.

The house was more or less what he would have expected, Ron thought as he followed the hallway to the kitchen. Everything was done up in soft greys, whites, and blues, but it didn’t lack warmth. He had to open a couple of different doors in the kitchen before he located the pantry, but he pulled out a bag of crisps and returned to the hall. It felt intrusive to go digging through everything in there without Hermione, so the crisps would tide him over.

The hall was lined with family photos, mostly of a younger Hermione and the couple he recognized as her parents. None of them moved, of course, but he still smiled at a school photo of young Hermione, looking almost exactly as she had when he’d met her six years earlier; probably from her last year of Muggle school.

The one next to it was more surprising: it looked like fourth-year Hermione, but her teeth hadn’t yet been downsized, so perhaps it was from the beginning of the year. She was posed in the same sort of way as the Muggle school photo, but she was definitely wearing her Hogwarts uniform, minus the robes. He almost laughed at how characteristic it was for Hermione’s family to have school photos even from her time at wizarding school.

He reached up to run a finger along the edge of the frame, trailing dust as he went. This version of Hermione, frozen in time, was significant, too, in its familiarity. He had realized almost from the beginning that he felt differently about Hermione than he did Harry, even though they were both his best friends. He had six siblings, too, and felt differently about each of them, and he’d chalked it up to the same sort of thing with his friends. But fourth year was when he had really begun to notice that the difference with Hermione was that she wasn’t  _ just _ a friend. Of course, he’d been too daft and scared to actually do anything about it. Although if he were really honest with himself, three years later, he could still say practically the same thing.


	5. Chapter 5

Physically, it felt wonderful to have the luxury of a long, hot shower, in a normal bathroom rather than a musty tent. Emotionally, Hermione was an absolute wreck.

She hadn’t set foot in her own home in over four months, and being back was just reminding her of what she had done to her parents in the name of their safety. Not to mention the circumstances that had returned her to the house; she felt horribly guilty over how comfortable she and Ron would be for the next couple of days while Harry was still out traipsing the wilderness, facing down any number of unknown horrors.

And then of course, there was Ron himself. She’d broken down when they’d arrived, practically thrown herself at him when she was supposed to be horribly angry with him. She  _ was _ horribly angry with him. But he made it so hard to stay that way. Plus there was a small, teenager-y, part of her brain that couldn’t let go of the fact that she was  _ alone _ in her house with a  _ boy_. A boy that she  _ fancied _ (she wouldn’t let herself think the other word, especially not now), who maybe, possibly, she had thought, fancied her too.

She turned the water off and reached for the towel she had draped over the rod. When she returned downstairs a few minutes later, she found Ron in the front hall gazing at an old photo of her that hung on the wall, an odd look on his face. Almost like...longing? She shook her head. She had to stop thinking these things. She was tired from not sleeping well the night before—oh, who was she kidding, she hadn’t slept well in months—and imagining things. When she said his name, though, Ron jumped and his ears and neck colored with a familiar red flush of embarrassment.

“I was just—er—crisps?” He held the unopened bag out to her. She shook her head and stepped up next to him.

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” She looked at the photo, grimacing at her large teeth and bushy hair, which had only marginally calmed since then. “My mum and dad still wanted school pictures of me, even from Hogwarts.” She smiled slightly.

“They must be proud of you,” Ron said gently. Hermione nodded.

“They don’t really understand the magic stuff, but top scores on exams? Earning my prefect badge? Those things translate.” She sighed, thinking of all she had given up to go on the horcrux hunt. It only strengthened her resolve to make the sacrifice worth it. “Would you like to shower, or shall we go straight to planning?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Nah, let’s get started.” Hermione led Ron back to the kitchen, where she found a frozen pizza that she popped into the oven. The juxtaposition of what they were about to eat versus what they were doing was absolutely laughable, as was writing down plans for defeating an evil wizard on a pad of muggle notebook paper.

“We need to keep looking for horcruxes,” she began. “Not to mention the sword. Or some other way to destroy them.”

Ron shook his head as she wrote. “You heard Phineas: even Dumbledore had to use the sword on that ring. If he didn’t know another way to get rid of the bloody things, I can’t see that there is one.”

“You’re probably right, unfortunately. So it seems Dumbledore would have hidden the sword, You-Know-Who of course being the one to hide the horcruxes.” She tried to think of places they hadn’t already been over, any avenue they hadn’t yet considered. Ron was chewing his lip, deep in thought. “What?”

“Well...say we  _ do _ find the sword. Then Harry’s stuck with that locket.” Hermione frowned. She hadn’t thought of how counter-productive it would be for them to be on parallel tracks with Harry. If anything, she was foolishly hoping that being split up and covering twice the ground would speed things along. “We...had a plan, didn’t we? Maybe we just go where we meant to go next and try to catch up with Harry there?”

“As much as I would like to,” Hermione said slowly, “I think the most productive way forward is to keep looking for the horcruxes. Nothing says that Harry will even keep to the plan we made, and we could end up chasing him all over Britain. But maybe...maybe we can figure out a way to get a message to him.”

Ron looked at her curiously. “How?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Hermione looked around the kitchen, hoping for anything that might jog an inspiration. Her eyes landed on the copy of the  _Telegraph_ Ron had picked up from the bus station. She crossed the room to grab it and laid it open on the table between them, flipping to the classified section.

“What are we going to do with Muggle classifieds?” Ron asked skeptically.

“We could code a message. Pick a time and a place to meet. This paper is in wide circulation; if Harry goes anywhere near a Muggle town, they’ll have copies. And I doubt the Death Eaters would lower themselves to bother with anything so commonly Muggle.”

“You’re assuming a lot, though. Harry could pick up a copy that’s old, or he could find the right one after when we say to meet up. Or not grab one at all. Or we could code the note so well trying to keep it from You-Know-Who that Harry mistakes it for just some prat trying to sell an old toaster.” Hermione looked at him with a frown, and he flushed again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she snapped, more harshly than she meant to. She took a breath and continued, more softly, “If we’re doing this together, we need to be a team. If you reckon something is stupid or isn’t going to work, you should say so. You don’t have to keep apologizing for everything.”

Ron glanced down at his hands, fidgeting against the tabletop. He seemed like he was working up the nerve to say something, so she stayed silent to let him get there. “I can’t forgive myself for last night,” he confessed finally. “And nor should you.”

Hermione stared at the top of his head. She hadn’t forgiven him, but he was here now—though where he might be if she hadn’t accidentally tagged along on his coat sleeve, she couldn’t be sure. At the same time, she was determined to keep this from being a wedge between them, as that would only distract from what they had to do. Her plan was more or less to just avoid talking about it, but that didn’t seem to be working so far. “Why did you go, then?” she whispered. The question slipped out unchecked, and she was terrified to hear his answer. Whatever it was, if it could happen once, it could happen again.

“I’m not going to make excuses,” he replied, and his voice had gotten snappy like hers had moments earlier. “Let’s just...get back to it, then.” He pulled the pad of paper roughly across to him, on which she had written only  _sword-D, horcruxes-V_ , and stared at it as if he would find all of the answers there. Hermione bristled at his sudden change of tone. “Do you reckon he would’ve just hidden it somewhere else at Hogwarts? The sword?”

“No,” Hermione said shortly, still rankled. “Why would he?”

“Hide it in plain sight. Snape thinks he’s got the real one, he wouldn’t bother looking for another right under his nose.”

“Doesn’t mean someone else couldn’t stumble across it.”

“You could say that about literally any kind of hiding place.”

“Well, it sounds like you’ve got it all sorted then,” Hermione said irritably, pushing back from the table. “I’m going to start packing.” Ron watched her leave the kitchen but made no move to follow, so she headed upstairs to her bedroom.

It was, as was the rest of the house, untouched since her July departure. But she didn’t waste any time dwelling on the room, just went straight to her closet and starting throwing things out into a pile on her bed. Fortunately, she hadn’t taken all that much of her wardrobe the first time, and even better, the same could be said of her books. She’d taken the most advanced books she had on each subject, including the full set of seventh-year texts she had superfluously ordered from Flourish and Blotts early in the summer, but her remaining textbooks would still be useful, if not quite as much so as the ones that remained with Harry.

She was steadfastly ignoring the smiling faces that peeked out from picture frames scattered on the shelves of her bookcase. The younger, more carefree, versions of herself, Harry, and Ron felt like they were from another lifetime. Ironic, really, considering most of their time at school had been fraught with danger, usually of their own undertaking. But their adventures had always been set against the backdrop of Hogwarts, and they had always, perhaps subconsciously, known that they had Dumbledore as a safety net. Out on the hunt, not only were the stakes higher, but they had no one to rely on but themselves. Clearly even relying on each other was not something that could be counted on.

She had planned to ignore the real Ron for a bit, too, but it had only been ten minutes or so before she heard him calling her name up the staircase. She sighed but set down the potions book she was flipping through to return downstairs. She knew  _ she _ could be counted on, and she wasn’t going to change that now just because she couldn’t one hundred percent say the same for Ron.

As she hurried down the stairs, she thought she could hear the source of Ron’s mild turmoil: the oven timer was beeping wildly to signal the end of the cooking time of the pizza. Sure enough, when she reentered the kitchen, Ron was staring at the appliance, looking quite bewildered and—she scolded herself for thinking it but—quite adorable. “There’s a button that says stop,” she told him. “Far right. Press that.” He did so, and the kitchen descended into silence again.

“Right. Thanks,” he muttered.

Hermione reached into a nearby drawer and withdrew two potholders, using one as a trivet and retrieving the pizza pan with the other. She raised her wand to do a slicing charm, which she had learned from none other than Ron’s mum, but Ron put a hand on her wrist, stopping her. “I was thinking, um...maybe we don’t do magic here if we can help it,” he said slowly. “We can’t be sure how safe we are here, and we still don’t know how they found us that first night in London.”

“It hasn’t been a problem out in the woods,” Hermione pointed out, but pocketed her wand all the same and reached for the cutlery drawer.

“I know, it just...I dunno. Feels wrong. I can’t explain it.”

Hermione shrugged. “Okay.”

Ron regarded her with one raised eyebrow. “No argument?”

“Did you want one?” she returned, feeling her hackles go up again.

Ron shook his head. “Not particularly.” Hermione sighed and cut the pizza into neat sixths. “Look, Hermione, I...” She didn’t look at him as he spoke, just reached to open the cabinet which held plates. “I know we drive each other crazy sometimes. But Harry’s not here as a buffer. We’re both going to have to try a little harder, I reckon, not to...”

“Kill each other?” Hermione supplied.

Ron smiled wryly. “Something like that.”

He was right, she knew. They had to work together, and be generally kinder to one another, if they were to have any hope of finishing what they started. So she returned his smile and handed him a plate.


	6. Chapter 6

Ron and Hermione spent the remainder of the afternoon going through her books and the supplies they could gather from around the house, and delicately ignoring any subject that might incite another row. Hermione worked at recreating the spellwork she had done on the beaded bag on another small handbag she found deep in her closet while Ron made dinner for them. It was just some pasta and jarred sauce from the Grangers’ pantry, but it was more of a proper meal than they’d had in weeks, and for that, Ron was grateful.

By the time they both turned in for the night (Hermione had set him up in the guest bedroom across the hall from hers), they hadn’t come up with any more of a plan for where to go, but they were ready for whatever the next steps would be. The new bag had been repacked with food and Hermione’s second-tier hoard of books, along with some muggle money that her dad apparently kept stashed away in his sock drawer for emergencies.

As well-prepared as they now were to re-embark on the horcrux hunt, Ron still felt restless as he tried to fall asleep that night. It certainly wasn’t for a lack of comfort, so he suspected it was on account of the guilt over leaving Harry being compounded by guilt over what he felt amounted to little more than theft from Hermione’s parents. But there was nothing for it now, he supposed. The only way to help Harry was to finish the mission, and the least he could do for the Grangers was help keep their daughter safe. And both of those things involved finding Voldemort’s horcruxes and getting rid of them.

Frustrated by his inability to get some rest while he had the chance, but determined to do something with the time, Ron slipped out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen. He set a tea kettle on the stovetop, heating the burner as Hermione had shown him how to do earlier, and then padded across to the living room where they had scratched out a rough rendition of the notes they’d had with them before. He gathered up the papers, gave a quick look out the front window to the street (still deserted), and returned to the kitchen.

One thing they had over their previous collection of notes was an actual map of Great Britain by which to go on, pilfered from a drawer in a spare bedroom Hermione’s parents used as a home office. Their last effort at mapping out possible horcrux locations had amounted to little more than a doodle by Ron—Hermione, though talented at most everything else, couldn’t draw at all, and Harry had neglected to even try. On a real map, they could more accurately pinpoint where the known wizarding villages were, and try to avoid zigzagging blindly up and down the country.

The kettle let out a loud whistle before Ron had even realized it was near boiling and he hurried to grab it, listening carefully overhead for any sign that the noise had woken Hermione. Not hearing any, he poured himself a mug of strong tea and settled back at the table to work.

He had marked on the map all the wizarding villages he could think of and finished a second mug of tea when he heard Hermione’s soft footsteps padding down the hall. He looked up as she entered. “Did I wake you?” he asked quietly. She shook her head and settled in the chair across from him.

“It’s too hard to relax,” she replied just as softly. “Don’t ever feel like we’re safe, even here.” Ron nodded, understanding completely. “What are you working on?”

He slid the map over to her, and she nodded as she looked over what he had done. “I was thinking that we should go to Godric’s Hollow,” he said. They were meant to make a plan tomorrow, but, hell, as long as they were both awake.

Hermione looked up at him, her messy hair sort of glowing from the lamp behind her, the only light in the room. “Why?” she asked, but her tone was merely curious, not dismissive.

“Dumbledore wanted Harry to have the sword. Godric’s Hollow’s about the only place he could’ve guaranteed Harry would go, not knowing where to send him for horcruxes.”

“Ron,” she said gently, and he had the sense that she was going to poke all sorts of holes in his theory. Though at least she seemed inclined to do so without fighting with him. “I know you want to find Harry, but—“

He shook his head, cutting her off. “This isn’t about finding Harry.” She raised an eyebrow at him, skeptical. “Okay, it crossed my mind,” he admitted. “But the best way to—to make up for leaving, is to end this thing. The sword could be there, in Godric’s Hollow. Hell, there could be a horcrux there. It’s a place that’s significant to You-Know-Who.” Hermione pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking, and Ron felt himself suddenly quite distracted by the motion.

“I can’t imagine he would want to hide one there, where he was practically killed.”

“All the more reason to. These horcruxes—they’re his link to immortality, yeah? What better place to put one than where he was almost killed? Sort of a big middle finger to the place, y’know?”

“Hmm. That’s a thought.” Hermione chuckled. “Don’t suppose we’ll be lucky enough to find both there, do you? The sword and a horcrux?”

“We can go, and hope for the best.”

Hermione nodded, then went back to chewing her lip. Finally, after a long moment, she ventured, “Can I ask you something?”

Ron’s heart leapt to his throat, though she had chosen her moment well; distracted by her lips as he was, he imagined he’d answer just about anything right then. “Okay,” he replied, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. He berated himself internally for his nervousness; she was just going to ask him something about the map, or if he would make more tea. Just because they were alone, in her house, in the near-darkness, did not mean—

“Are you ever going to tell me why you left?”

Fuck.

“You don’t have to  _ now_ _,”_ she added hurriedly, clearly hoping to stave off another row about it. “But I think at some point, we’re going to have to get through this.”

“I told you, I don’t want to make excuses for what I did,” he answered, though in a less hostile tone than he had taken on the subject earlier. It wasn’t fair to blame the locket for his walking out, when it hadn’t led Harry or Hermione to the same irrational course of action.

“Why are you so quick to call it an excuse? Ron, you’re allowed to be worried about your family. Harry and I are worried about them too, but it—it’s not the same, I know.”

Her brown eyes were wide and imploring as she looked at him across the table, and he marveled at how she could have anything but disdain for him barely twenty-four hours after he had left the campsite and dragged her along. If he didn’t know better, he might think she possibly felt the same way that he did for her. But if she ever had, she surely couldn’t now. And besides, he would never deserve her now because “You would’ve never left,” he stated, not a question because he already knew. “Not on purpose.”

“No,” she agreed after a moment, and for some reason it seemed to pain her to admit this. It pained him to hear it, just as it had the night before. She would choose Harry, again and again, given the chance. He forced the thoughts back. The mission was more important. It had to be more important.

Ron pulled the map back across the table and carefully folded it up along its well worn creases. “We should try and get some sleep. While we can.”

He could sense Hermione’s gaze still on him, but she remained silent, seeming to accept his suggestion of sleep as the end of the conversation. He couldn’t talk about it anymore. And he didn’t want to make excuses for Hermione, either, for why she had bothered chasing him out into the rain, why she was so vehemently against him leaving in the first place. They were best friends, and no more than that.


	7. Chapter 7

Without the added protection that Harry’s invisibility cloak provided, Ron and Hermione had agreed to apparate well outside of Godric’s Hollow and go into the village on foot. Hermione had altered their appearances again, and she had transfigured the magically expanded handbag into a backpack, so that with Ron carrying his rucksack, they looked like they could be university students on a camping trip.

Neither of them spoke as they started the early morning walk toward the village, and Hermione was sure they were thinking about the same thing: the conversation she’d foolishly tried to start again with him in the middle of the night. She knew he didn’t want to talk about why he had left, but it was so hard for her to let go of it. There was too much conflicting information for her to properly wrap her head around it all. Ron storming out, but not apparating home to the Burrow. Saying he would go once she got back to the campsite, then saying he was committed to the mission. She knew he was conflicted; they both were. It was almost harder to leave her house that morning than it had been the first time, so tempting as a safe haven that hadn’t yet been breached.

She knew, though, that any safety it provided was temporary at best, while the Death Eaters roamed free. If they didn’t complete this mission, finish off Voldemort, the wizarding world would never be safe, and they would always be running. And maybe that’s what kept Ron here, with her; blood status only went so far with those maniacs, and as long as the Weasleys stood against the new regime, they were in as much danger as she was.

But then...why had he left?

They came over the top of a hill and saw the little village down below. “Now remember,” Hermione began, though they’d already been over this several times, “muggles and wizards both live here, so no open magic. We’ve no idea who’s who. And we’re muggle uni students.” Ron merely nodded in acknowledgment. They had decided it would be best to get the lay of the land first, not being familiar with the village, then retreat back out of town to camp for the night and make a plan based on what they had learned.

Looking down at the town, there didn’t seem to be much to it. Hermione could see a little town square, a church steeple beside it, and roads leading out of the town on either side. Ron must have been thinking the same thing, because he said, “Not a lot of places to hide anything, hmm?”

The open country turned into a little dirt road, which Hermione could see turned paved up ahead of them, lined by little cottages on either side. She was starting to think this was a terrible idea, coming  _ here _ of all places when the wound of leaving Harry was still so raw. And it felt even worse to be here without him, after she had previously told him what a dangerous idea it was.

Hermione was so lost in her thoughts that she was actually startled when Ron spoke. “Bloody hell.” She was several steps beyond him before she realized he’d stopped walking.

“Ron, what—“ But as soon as she returned to his side, she saw what had halted him. “Oh my God.” It hadn’t been visible as they approached, but now she saw, between two cottages to which this one must have once been identical, the ivy-covered, decrepit house that was missing one corner of the upper floor over which the roof was now sagging. “Do you think that’s...?” She trailed off, unable to say Harry’s name.

“Gotta be, yeah? Wasn’t there a minute ago.” Ron’s voice was husky with emotion, and Hermione pretended not to notice as he wiped quickly at his eyes.

Hermione lowered her voice, though they were alone in the street, and asked, “If there is something in there, how are we going to get it? It looks dangerous.”

“Well, that’s the point of today, right?” Ron said, tugging at her elbow. “See what we’re dealing with and then plan. C’mon, let’s keep moving.”

Hermione allowed Ron to lead the way toward the center of the village. It was mostly quiet at the early hour, but Hermione could see a few of the shopkeepers inside their businesses, readying for the day, and there was a cafe that seemed to be already open. “Breakfast?” she asked Ron, who nodded. That seemed as good a method as any for keeping up their muggle camping pretense. Hermione pushed open the door to the cafe, and a bell tinkled over their heads.

There were a couple of older men, sitting alone with coffees and newspapers, but other than them and the one waitress behind the counter, who didn’t appear much older than Ron and Hermione, the cafe was empty. They selected the booth in the back corner, and Ron looked startled when Hermione slid in next to him. “Easier if we need to keep our voices down,” she explained softly. “Besides, I’m not keen on having my back to the door. Just in case.” She unwrapped her scarf and set it aside as the waitress approached, bearing two ceramic mugs and a pot of coffee.

“Good morning,” she said cheerfully, placing the mugs in front of them and filling them. “What can I get you?”

“Er, eggs and sausage for me,” Ron replied.

Hermione had spotted a display of pastries on the counter as they entered. “Just a blueberry muffin, please.”

The waitress disappeared behind the counter and into the kitchen area as Ron took a sip of the coffee. “Shit, that’s bitter.” He reached for the sugar container and poured in much more than Hermione thought necessary.

“You’re impossible,” she scolded lightly with a roll of her eyes.

The waitress reappeared from the kitchen, followed this time by an older waitress who began wiping the counter. They both looked up expectantly as the bell above the door sounded again, but seemed to deflate at the gentleman who entered. The younger girl took him a coffee and a bagel and greeted him by name, so Hermione took him to be a regular in the cafe. When the girl returned to the counter, Hermione heard her say to the older waitress, “Mrs. Bagshot hasn’t been here in a few days. D’you think we ought to be worried about her?” Ron’s hand froze briefly in the act of stirring the sugar into his coffee, so Hermione knew he had caught the name too.

“Money’s tight around the holidays, you know,” the older woman replied, seeming unconcerned. “I’m sure she’s just taking her tea at home.”

The girl frowned at the reply, but at that moment, a hand appeared around the door to the kitchen holding what looked to be Ron’s breakfast, and the waitress took the plate, grabbed Hermione’s muffin from the tray on the counter, and returned to their table with the food, her smile back. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” she said. Hermione noticed she was looking at Ron as she said it and felt the all too familiar flicker of jealousy in her stomach.

“We’re camping in the area,” Ron lied smoothly. “Just passing through.”

“You should stay for the tree lighting ceremony, if you can. It’s tomorrow night.” The waitress nodded to a bright green flyer that hung on a bulletin board near their table. “Biggest event in town, though I suppose that’s not saying much.” She shrugged as one of the other customers called to her. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

Ron started eating and waited until the waitress was on the far side of the cafe before he whispered, “Do you reckon she’s...like us?”

“Maybe not; if Bathilda came here often, they might just know her as a customer,” Hermione replied, keeping her voice equally low. “We  _ can _ assume it’s Bathilda she’s talking about, right?”

“Definitely. Muriel told Harry she lives here, remember?” Ron glanced towards the waitress, who was still occupied, and continued, “You think something happened to her?”

Hermione shrugged. “Maybe, but we shouldn’t assume it was anything...dark. She’s quite old.”

“You think we ought to look into it, I guess is what I’m really asking?”

“I think we have more important things to look into while we’re here,” Hermione reminded Ron. She pulled a ten-pound note from the side pocket of her backpack and slipped it under Ron’s now-empty plate to cover their breakfast. “Come on.”

They hurried out of the cafe and continued on toward the town square. There was some kind of memorial in the center, but it was mostly obscured by the Christmas tree that would presumably be the focus of the event the waitress had invited them to the following night. Across the way was a post office, and outside it, a coin operated newspaper dispenser. Even though the muggle news could only tell them so much, every little bit helped.

Hermione led Ron over to the post office, rummaging in her pocket for coins. The blue metal box had two windowed doors displaying the papers inside—one local, one from London—with coin slots above each. Curiously, it looked wide enough for a third stack of papers, but the space on the end where another door would be was solid. Hermione slipped a twenty-pence piece into the local slot, but as soon as her hand touched the metal, a third coin slot appeared in the blank space on the end. She glanced around the square to ensure they were still alone, then whispered quickly to Ron, “Have you got a Knut?”

Ron looked at her incredulously until he too noticed the third coin slot, and hurried to pull out one of the brass coins to hand to her. Hermione slipped the Knut into the machine, and a third door materialized. She opened it quickly and extracted a copy of the  _ Sunday Prophet_. It was a few days old, as it was Wednesday according to the local paper she had gotten first, but it would be much more current news than they’d had practically since leaving Grimmauld Place. “Brilliant,” Ron said with a grin, stuffing the paper quickly into his rucksack. Hermione held onto the local paper so as not to look like they had come away from the machine empty-handed.

They continued to walk through town, peeking in the shop windows and feigning interest, but really just on the lookout for anything that seemed out of place, or that looked like a place where something might be hidden. After an hour or so, they felt they had looked around at least enough to get started on a plan, so they headed back out of town the way they had come, both of them trying and, at least in Hermione’s case, failing not to look at the ruins of the Potters’ house as they went.


	8. Chapter 8

Ron knew he had been in a bad mood before, but it was nothing compared to how he felt now, camped in the countryside near Godric’s Hollow. He and Hermione had spent the morning walking around the sleepy little town looking for clues and finding nothing significant but the ruins of their abandoned best friend’s first home.

Ron  _knew_ that Harry had once lived here,  _knew_ that somewhere in the town he had miraculously survived Voldemort’s killing curse while his parents hadn’t, but at no point had it occurred to him that the evidence of that event would still be there to slap him round the face, sixteen years later.

He didn’t think it had occurred to Hermione, either, but she was keeping any feelings she might have had about it close to the vest as usual. They had divided up the copy of the  _Sunday Prophet_ that they had scored in town, but Ron was too absorbed in thought to read his. Hermione, of course, was devouring the pages, leaving her lunch of canned soup practically untouched.

“Have you got page seven?” she asked suddenly, looking over at him.

“Hmm?”

“Page seven. This article I’m reading says it continues there.”

“Oh. Yeah, here.” He stretched an arm out to hand her the whole wad of newspaper she’d given him a little while ago.

“You’re not reading it?” He thought he detected a hint of scolding in her question, but appreciated that she had tried to dampen it. He was trying his best not to take out these horrible feelings he was having on her, either.

“Can’t focus.”

She took the proffered newspaper, but folded it gently in her lap. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he replied, but she seemed to sense that this wasn’t the truth. She waited quietly, watching him expectantly but with what he felt was undeserved tenderness. “He should’ve died, Hermione,” he said finally, the only words he could manage to get out on the subject.

“He didn’t, though.” She shifted almost imperceptibly closer to him on the conjured sofa.

“I know that,” he snapped, then sighed. “Sorry.” Of course, he wasn’t supposed to apologize anymore, either, but she would have to let that one go.

“It’s horrible, though. The house, still standing. Sort of.” She paused. “Why do you think nobody ever fixed it? The original Order, maybe?”

“Sirius was in Azkaban,” he reminded her, “and Wormtail was busy playing dead. Can’t imagine Lupin was in any better frame of mind, thinking about their best friend betraying them.” Damn if  _that_ sentence didn’t hit too close to home just then. “Plus nobody really knew what had happened to Vol—“

“Stop!” Hermione screeched unexpectedly. Ron raised an eyebrow at her; usually he was the one asking the other two not to call You-Know-Who by his proper name. “That’s—it’s—I’m sorry, I want to keep talking about this, but Ron, it’s in the article I was reading.” She put her hand on the newspaper but didn’t reopen it to show him as she might normally have done. “I can’t figure how, but it sounds like they’re tracking people by use of his name. I think that must be how they found us on Tottenham Court Road.”

Ron’s brow furrowed. “We said it all the time when we were at Grimmauld.”

“I know, I just—let’s keep from saying it. Just to be safe. But...go on. About the house?”

“Nobody knew what happened to You-Know-Who, that night,” Ron continued. “What kind of dark magic might’ve been used, or lingering, at the house.”

“But You-Know-Who’s back, now. Whatever curses might have been used on the house...they’ll have gone by now, won’t they?”

She looked slightly terrified by what dark afflictions they might have to face if theyentered the house, and Ron wanted to make her feel better, but couldn’t. He shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that, Hermione. Magic doesn’t...expire. Especially dark shit like the Death Eaters are doing.”

Hermione took a deep breath, then said, “So it’s a suicide mission, then? Going in there to have a look around?”

She didn’t seem to consider this a deterrent, so Ron joked back darkly, “This whole horcrux hunt is, isn’t it?” The corner of Hermione’s mouth turned up just slightly. “But, no, I don’t think so. Hagrid or somebody went in after and got Harry. It’s just...unknown. It might just be a crumbly old house.”

They were both silent for a long moment, Hermione folding one corner of the paper in her lap back and forth. “If it isn’t, though...” she said slowly. “We  _do_ know a curse-breaker.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed at the suggestion. “We can’t get Bill involved.”

“Why not?”

“You know bloody well why not. We‘re not meant to tell anyone about the horcruxes.”

“We don’t have to go into details.”

“Oh, so now I’ve got to lie to my family, too?”

“I’m not saying that, Ron.” She set the paper aside with a huff. “They all know we’re on a mission from Dumbledore, already. If we just tell Bill that we need to get in somewhere that’s potentially cursed—“ Hermione cut herself off as Ron got to his feet and began pacing the small space in front of the sofa. “It’s either that, or we go in blind! We could get seriously hurt, and I don’t have the supplies that I did before—“

“Before I left, right,” Ron shot at her irritably, his earlier vow not to row with her falling by the wayside.

Hermione stood as well and put herself in his path to yell back, “In case you haven’t noticed,  _Ronald_ , I left too!”

“By accident!”

“Yes, by accident, trying to make you  _stay_ , you thick-headed prat!”

“I already know this whole thing is my fault, you don’t have to keep reminding me!”

“I don’t care whose fault it is, I care that as usual, I want you to be here more than you want to be!” Hermione’s voice broke on her last statement, which confused Ron more than it probably should have.

“What are you on about?” The tears in Hermione’s eyes tempered down his tone. He always felt horrible when he made her cry, but he hadn’t yet figured out how to stop himself before it got to that point with her.

Hermione sniffed once and wiped at her eyes. “Nothing,” she spat. “It doesn’t matter.”

Ron sighed. “Fine. Let’s go to Bill’s. You’re right, we don’t know what’s in the house.”

Hermione folded her arms over her chest and fixed him with a menacing look. “Could you, for once in your damn life, skip the fight and just agree with me if you’re going to in the end anyway?”

Ron looked guiltily down at his feet. He never meant to get so angry with her, but for some reason, she got him more riled up than anyone else could. Scratch that, he knew exactly the reason. “When d’you want to go?”

“The sooner the better, I suppose.” Hermione sat back down on the sofa, the argument apparently now over. “When does he normally get done work? He’s still working, isn’t he?”

“Wouldn’t know, would I? Should be, though.”

“We could go and see him tonight. If we’re to get into the house, I think we should do it tomorrow night. Everyone in town is going to be at that Christmas tree thing, from the sounds of it. That will give us a chance to get in without being seen.”

“Okay. What should we do until then?” Hermione extended his portion of the newspaper back to him in response, minus page seven. He took it and reclaimed his seat beside her on the couch to read.

If he had thought that having news would make him feel better, though, he was sorely mistaken. The  _Prophet_ seemed to have fallen in line with Voldemort’s regime, same as the Ministry had: it was full of cheerfully written articles about educational reforms at Hogwarts (which seemed mostly to amount to “Defense Against the” being dropped from the class’s curriculum), and the great success of Umbridge’s “task force” of a bunch of brutes called Snatchers, whose job it was to round up fleeing muggleborns and other so-called undesirables. The information Hermione had referenced was a throwaway line from an interview with one of the Snatchers, who had said about a particular capture, “The git had been running for weeks, thought he could use the Dark Lord’s name, and we got him easy.” Ron would’ve glossed right over it, and though he knew he shouldn’t be, he was extremely glad that Hermione was there with him.

They spent the afternoon as such, adding bits of information that seemed important to their growing pile of rewritten notes, and then decided around five o’clock to go and see Bill. Ron had no idea how to properly explain to his brother why they would be showing up without Harry, especially not being able to tell him anything about the horcrux that had been so influential in driving them apart, but Ron supposed he would have to wing it. They had the new tent repacked in short order and then Hermione was holding her hand out for Ron to side-along apparate her to Bill and Fleur’s house near Tinworth.

He wasn’t surprised, exactly, that their arrival outside Shell Cottage was met almost instantly with Bill’s and Fleur’s wands in their faces, but it was still disorienting. “What’s my brother’s greatest fear and why?” Bill demanded.

“Spiders. The twins turned my bloody bear into one when we were little,” Ron replied with his hands held up in front of him.

Fleur was at more of a disadvantage, not knowing either Ron or Hermione as well as Bill, but she directed her question at Hermione: “What did I say to you the morning of the Third Task after I first met Bill?”

Ron didn’t know the answer to this; he hadn’t known Fleur and Hermione to have any direct interaction until the time Fleur came to stay at the Burrow, though since Hermione had been sort of dating  _Vicky_ throughout the Tournament, he supposed they must have done. To his great surprise, though, Hermione blushed a deep pink and muttered, “Can’t I answer something else?”

Bill, apparently also unsure of the answer Fleur was looking for, glanced sidelong at his wife, who shrugged. “Good enough. Come inside, quickly.”

They entered the cottage through the side door into the kitchen. “What are you doing here?” Bill asked immediately. “Where’s Harry?”

Ron blanked on what to say, but Hermione piped up. “We’ve been separated. Just a couple of days ago. It was an accident.” Ron glanced over at her, surprised at how directly she was lying, but she was looking steadily at Bill, who directed his gaze immediately back to Ron.

“We need your help,” Ron added uselessly.

Bill didn’t look appeased at all. He glanced between Fleur and Hermione. “D’you two mind if I speak to my brother, alone?”

“Of course.” Fleur flitted over and kissed Bill on the cheek, then led Hermione from the room. Bill waved his wand, and Ron felt the kitchen seal itself off from all outside noise, the room suddenly suffocatingly silent.

Ron could feel the tension coming off Bill in waves. “What the hell kind of trouble are you in, Ron?” he asked bluntly.

“It’s like Hermione said,” Ron began, “we’ve gotten separated from Harry, so we’re going it on our own.”

“But you need my help?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t gone to Mum and Dad?”

“No.”

Bill’s eyes flicked to the door the two girls had disappeared through moments ago. “She pregnant?”

“ _ What _ ?!” Ron croaked.

“You heard me.”

If a more mortifying situation existed, Ron couldn’t fathom it. Having five older brothers had meant a plethora of anecdotes and advice on the subject of girls and sex, but Ron had never gotten anywhere near putting any of it into practical use. He felt his whole face turning red as he sputtered out a reply. “Merlin—no—fucking hell, Bill. It’s nothing like that.”

“You and Hermione show up here, alone, and last time I saw you two, you were practically snogging her with your eyeballs on the dance floor. You’ve been out on your own for months. You’re being vague about why you’re not with Harry, you haven’t gone to the Burrow...” Bill shrugged. “Seemed a valid question.”

“Well it isn’t,” Ron retorted. “It’s not even...like that...with her.”

“Uh huh.” Bill rolled his eyes. “Go on, then. Why are you here? And where the bloody hell is Harry?”

Ron hesitated but felt it would be compounding the mistake he had made by leaving to lie to his brother about it. So he opened his mouth and let as much of the truth as he was allowed to divulge spill out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't put this note at the beginning of the chapter without spoiling it, but as you can see, I'm not even going to pretend to try and write Fleur's accent the way it appears in the books. You'll see a little bit of her in the next chapter as well, so just use your imagination :)


	9. Chapter 9

“Since we’re alone,” Fleur said as soon as she and Hermione made it to the sitting room, “I don’t suppose you’ll be too embarrassed to answer my question now?”

Hermione glanced backward toward the kitchen. “Of course,” she returned sarcastically. “Nothing embarrassing at all about ‘I understand what you see in those Weasley boys’.” She gave Fleur the accompanying wink that Fleur had given her following that comment three years earlier, at which the older girl laughed as she sat gracefully on the sofa. Hermione really had no ill will towards Fleur anymore, but the fact that she’d been so obviously in love with Ron even then was humiliating. Not that  _ he _ had ever noticed, of course.

“Well, he must know now, non?” Hermione shook her head. “ _ No _ ?” Fleur repeated incredulously. “Mon dieu. Tell me, then, what are you two doing here? What’s happened to Harry?”

Hermione had to choose her words carefully. They weren’t to tell anyone else about the horcruxes, and she didn’t want to betray Ron by stating too explicitly the circumstances of their split from Harry. “This mission from Dumbledore. We’re...searching for something. And we think we know where we might find it, but...it’s somewhere that dark magic is known to have been used. So we’re hoping Bill can help with that.”

“And Harry?”

“He’s alright, we think. He was when we got separated, anyway.”

Fleur looked puzzled by her explanation but didn’t press further. “Do you have other things that you need, you and Ron?” she asked instead. “Potions? Supplies?”

“We have food, and a tent. All of my potions and things got left with Harry.”

Fleur stood and motioned Hermione to follow. “Viens.” Hermione followed Fleur up the narrow stairs to a second floor bathroom, where she opened up a cabinet and began pulling bottles down. “Bill can help with curses, I can help with healing.”

“Oh, Fleur, I appreciate it, but we can’t take all of this,” Hermione said as she watched.

“Bill and I can get more. You cannot. Please.” Fleur held out several of the larger bottles, which Hermione took gratefully.

“Thank you.” A door shut loudly downstairs, and Fleur and Hermione hurried to return to find Bill and a violently blushing Ron in the living room.

“You understand,” Bill said immediately to Hermione as they entered, “that I can only teach you so much about curse-breaking in one evening?”

Hermione glanced uncertainly at Ron, who was staring steadfastly at the floor, then back to Bill. “You’ll help us, then?”

“As much as I’m able to. If you come across something I don’t teach you, though—and the odds of that are good with such a limited time frame—I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.”

Hermione nodded. Ron was still studying his shoes, and she assumed he and Bill had already covered this. Though why he was acting so strange about it, she wasn’t sure. “I understand. Thank you.”

Fleur brushed past Bill. “I’ll start dinner,” she said before disappearing into the kitchen.

Ron had not told Bill what they were looking for, but he  _ had _ told his brother where they were looking. From what Bill knew from his parents and other older members of the Order, he seemed to think the more likely dangers of the Potters’ house were boggarts, and doxies, and other nuisances such as the ones they had cleared out of Grimmauld Place, that summer before sixth year. Bill pointed out, as Ron had done earlier, that infant Harry (as well as the bodies of James and Lily) had been successfully rescued from the damaged house without encountering any lingering effects of the killing curse or anything else Voldemort might have done that Halloween night. But there had also been sixteen years between then and now, and if it turned out that Voldemort had hidden something in the house, rather than Dumbledore, it would undoubtedly include some nasty protections like the ones in the cave.

Over dinner, Bill and Fleur caught Ron and Hermione up on what had been going on with the family and the rest of the Order, though the news was largely dismal. The snippet of information Hermione had picked up on about using You-Know-Who’s name turned out to be accurate: there was a Taboo on it, meaning that wherever it was spoken could be tracked immediately by Death Eaters. Bill said it could even break protective enchantments, though that didn’t seem to extend to the Fidelius charm; Hermione was sure they had said it at Grimmauld Place, and the Death Eaters had been confined to the square, unable to see the house. Or maybe the Taboo had been created later, and Tottenham Court Road had been a horrible coincidence. In any case, Hermione had no desire to do any practical field testing on the subject. She’d be particularly worried about Harry using the name, only he didn’t have anyone to say it to, at the moment.

They spent a couple more hours with Bill after dinner, before he and Fleur turned in for the night. Ron followed shortly after to one of the guest rooms Fleur had set up for them, but Hermione stayed up to read through her old Defense textbook, wanting to give at least a cursory glance to anything and everything she thought they might encounter at the Potters’ house.

She heard footsteps on the landing and looked up just in time to see Ron enter the sitting room. “I thought you’d gone to bed,” she said softly.

“I left my bag down here,” he replied, motioning to the corner of the room where he had dropped his rucksack earlier. Instead of grabbing the bag and retreating, though, he took a seat in the chair nearest the end of the sofa where Hermione sat. “You didn’t have to lie to Bill. I told him what happened. How we—how  _ I _ left Harry.”

Hermione frowned at him. “Lie to Bill? What are you talking about?”

“You...” Ron paused, looking sheepishly down at his hands. “You said it was an accident, how we got separated from him.”

She was surprised that he was bringing up their departure, after being so reluctant to talk about it before, but she wasn’t going to protest. “I wouldn’t say that was a lie, Ron.”

He glared at her slightly. “You being here was an accident, but it wasn’t for me, Hermione. I meant to go.”

“Then why are you still here?” she snapped back heatedly. “I believe you really meant to go,  _ in that moment_. But I  _ don’t _ believe that you actually meant to give up on the hunt, or on Harry.” Ron met her gaze without speaking, and she took his lack of argument as a confirmation. “What I don’t know, is what happened to make you want to leave.”

“It’s...complicated,” Ron said evasively.

“Try me.”

He sighed heavily, but shifted forward and rested his arms on his knees. “Did you ever feel...funny? When you were wearing the locket?”

Funny wasn’t exactly how Hermione would describe the icy, crawling feeling of dread that the horcrux had given her, and there was no denying that all three of them were grumpier when wearing it versus not. But Ron was talking now, and she wanted him to continue. So she asked, “Funny how?”

“You know...” She sat silent, waiting for Ron to elaborate, which he seemed hesitant to do. “ _ Bad _ ,” he said finally.

“Yes,” she agreed. “We all did. What’s the locket got to do with you leaving?”

“Nothing. Never mind.” Ron stood, but Hermione snatched at his hand before he could move away from her.

“I’m just trying to understand, Ron,” she said, annoyed at the pleading tone her voice had taken on, again. He was still here and she wanted that to be enough of an explanation, but it wasn’t. It just wasn’t.

He sat back down slowly, but surprisingly didn’t pull his hand from hers. “Do you remember what I said, the other night?” he asked, his voice uncharacteristically small. “That you didn’t need me?” She did, with painful clarity, so she nodded. He looked down at their joined hands and continued. “That’s what I felt. All the time, wearing the locket. Like a bloody useless git with a bad arm, just weighing down you and Harry.” Hermione felt tears prick at her eyes but fought them back. He was finally talking, and crying would be a surefire way to clam him right back up. “And then it would be yours or Harry’s turn to wear it, and taking it off was like...like coming up for air after being underwater.” He looked up at her searchingly. “Is that how it felt for you?”

“No,” she whispered honestly, her heart breaking at how badly the locket had been affecting Ron. And worse how, despite how well she knew him, she hadn’t even noticed. Or rather,  _ had _ noticed, but had honestly just thought he was being melodramatic about it. It hadn’t occurred to her that the locket might affect each of them differently, and if she’d been forced to guess who among them might have the hardest time with it, it would have been Harry, naturally, due to his inexplicable connection to Voldemort. Though she had to admit, she didn’t know exactly how Harry felt wearing the locket, either. Maybe if they’d all talked about it instead of sniping at each other, they wouldn’t be split now. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ron scoffed. “Yeah, because dumping that on you would’ve made me feel  less useless,” he returned sarcastically, but his eyes were apologetic when he looked back at her. “Anyway, it would sort of go away after a while, after I took it off.”

“Only sort of?”

“Well...” He glanced around the room as if searching for the right words. “The feeling would go away, but I could still remember it. And I would be pretty sure that everything I’d been thinking with the locket wasn’t true—that you and Harry needed me, wanted me there—but I just...dunno, still doubted it, I guess.”

It was possibly the most honest and vulnerable she had ever seen Ron. So even though it terrified her to do so, she scooted to sit at the edge of the sofa and gripped his hand tighter. “The horcrux isn’t here now, so I want you to hear  _ me_, loud and clear,” she said slowly. Ron nodded back, listening. “I  _ do _ need you. I  _ do _ want you here.” It was easily the most honest she’d ever been with him, too.

Ron leaned ever so slightly closer to her. “Yeah?” Merlin, why did he have to look at her like that? His eyes were blazing, and if she didn’t know better, she would almost swear he felt the same about her as she did him.

“Yes.” She heard the waver in her voice and hoped that Ron couldn’t. “I do. And I know Harry does, too.”

Whatever the mood might have been shifting toward, the mention of Harry’s name brought it to a screeching halt. She felt Ron tense before he sat back in his chair, pulling his hand away in the process. “Right,” he said awkwardly. “Er, thanks.”

“Ron—“ she tried again, but he stood and made to grab his forgotten bag.

“Don’t stay up too late. Big day tomorrow.” And with that, he hurried up the stairs again, out of sight.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I own nothing, but added disclaimer for this chapter as part of the text is directly out of DH-you'll know when you see it.

Things between himself and Hermione were uncomfortable the next day, to say the least. He’d bared his soul to her, and she had...brought the conversation back to Harry. She’d cornered him after breakfast that morning to apologize, though she thought his abrupt departure the night before was due to the admittedly sore spot that was his now-days-old fight with Harry, and Ron was content to let her go on thinking that. The things he had said to her were humiliating enough without explicitly going into his feelings for her, and he  _ definitely _ didn’t want to hear about her and Harry.

She hadn’t  _ actually _ said anything about Harry, other than that he also wanted Ron around, which Ron suspected was in fact true, or at least had been true a few days ago. But the way she had said it, speaking on Harry’s behalf with such certainty, made it sound so... _ couple-y_. It made Ron’s stomach turn.

Of course, what she  _ had _ actually said, before mentioning Harry, would be quite reassuring if he would only let it be. She said  _ she _ needed him. She said  _ she _ wanted him.

He glanced over at her now, holding half a sandwich in one hand and once again poring over a book with the other. They had apparated back to the hills outside Godric’s Hollow after breakfast, just to keep an eye on things in the town before they made their way into the Potters’ house that night to search. Ron honestly couldn’t decide if he hoped they would find anything or not. If they found the sword, there would be no defeating Voldemort without reuniting with Harry and the locket, and Ron wasn’t sure how to manage that. Alternatively, the idea of toting around a new horcrux was staggeringly dreadful, but he knew it would have to be done. But mostly he was just hoping to get in and out of the house unscathed.

Hermione spent most of the afternoon with her nose in one book or another, while Ron sat out on the hilltop looking down at the town. From his position above, he could see nothing out of sorts: no dementors, no light from spells that would indicate any kind of magical scuffle, nothing. It was sort of amazing that this sleepy little town, with its supposedly half-magic population, had managed to stay that way. Untouched by Voldemort for sixteen years. Of course, they would find out if that were really true or not shortly.

As darkness began to fall around them, Hermione finally emerged from the tent and settled down on the ground next to Ron. “Anything odd?” she asked in opening. He shook his head. “We should get going soon.”

Ron glanced at his watch. “The ceremony doesn’t start for an hour.”

“People will start heading that way, though, and we don’t know how long it will last. I want us to have as much time as possible to search the house.”

Ron nodded, dusting off his trousers as he stood and then pulled Hermione to her feet. They packed up the tent and headed into town, entering by the same quiet road they had yesterday morning. It was fortunate that the Potters’ house was on the outskirts of town; the street was once again deserted, and they hurried along until they were in front of the dilapidated cottage.

“So we’ll put up the enchantments once we get inside,” Hermione reminded him as they made their way up the walk. “It may not help depending on what’s in there but it can’t—oh!” She had put her hand on the gate to push it open, but yanked it back at the sudden movement in front of them. Ron watched in awe as a signpost materialized just inside the gate.

_On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981,  
Lily and James Potter lost their lives.  
Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard  
ever to have survived the Killing Curse.  
This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left  
in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters  
and as a reminder of the violence  
that tore apart their family._

“Blimey,” Ron breathed as he read. “There’s your answer, Hermione.”

“Who do you think erected the sign?”

“Like you said, maybe the old Order. Maybe Dumbledore. We should get inside, though.”

“Wait.” She put a hand on his arm. “Here’s your answer, as well.” He looked down at her curiously, and she nodded to the sign. “If Harry were here, if you could say anything to him right now, what would it be?”

The sign was covered in memorandum from other visitors, scratched dates and initials, along with some supportive messages that seemed quite recent. Ron fought a smirk. “Are you condoning vandalism?”

“Well, I’m not thrilled about it,” Hermione replied primly, though she also seemed to be holding back a smile. “But we’ll hardly be the first. And it seems as certain as anything else that Harry will see it.”

“Let’s think about it while we look around.” Ron pushed at the gate, and it opened without resistance. “C’mon.”

At the end of the sidewalk, just before the couple of short steps that lead onto the porch, they stopped to do the enchantments they had been using throughout the hunt. As they’d discussed, it wouldn’t help them on the inside, but it would at least make it so they wouldn’t be disturbed from the outside. Hermione went up the steps first and turned to face him. “Ready?”

Ron shrugged. “As ready as we can be.” He couldn’t deny his nerves; there was no telling what the interior held for them.

Hermione nodded, seeming to steel herself as well. “ _Alohomora_ ,” she whispered. There was no sound of a lock turning, but when she tried the handle, the door swung open. Surely it wasn’t a good sign that the front door wasn’t even locked, but as they lit their wands and looked around the front hall, Ron could not see or hear anything amiss. Or at least, nothing that was amiss presently; the crumbling house had not been cared for in some time, and what remained was something like a bubble of when it was last inhabited. On the table by the front door was a yellowed old copy of the  _ Daily Prophet _ from the morning of the murders and a smiling plastic jack-o-lantern. A man’s coat still hung on the rack next to the table, and there was a set of alphabet blocks that looked to have taken a tumble from the top of the staircase and subsequently been strewn across the floor. “I don’t like this, Ron,” Hermione whispered, and he could hear a tremble in her voice.

Ron reached over and squeezed her hand quickly. He wasn’t keen on it either; it felt like disrupting a grave, being there. “Then let’s just do this once and make it count,” he whispered back, more confident than he felt.

They made their way to the left, through a narrow dining room to the kitchen. There were still plates in the sink; Ron felt a renewed nausea at how abruptly and brutally Harry’s family had been ripped apart. Again, he could see nothing that looked out of place, and the spells Hermione was muttering in search of traces of magic were not turning up anything.

They moved back across the entrance hall into the sitting room, which looked equally untouched. The walls held pictures of James—Merlin, Harry really did look a lot like him—Lily, and baby Harry, and Ron recognized a much younger Lupin and Sirius in a few of them. The couch was the only thing in the room that showed any signs of damage: a large hole in the center cushion seemed to now house a couple of mice that scurried into it as Ron’s wand light landed on them.

Hermione was examining the photos on the wall as well, and Ron heard her sniffle. “They were barely older than we are now,” she said softly. “James and Lily.”

“And we’re still fighting the same evil bastard,” Ron retorted bitterly. “Find anything?”

“No.” Hermione tilted up one of the larger frames from the bottom edge and checked behind it.

“Bit small for a sword back there, isn’t it?” Ron asked as he bent to look under the sofa.

Hermione glared at him. “We don’t know what we’re looking for, as far as horcruxes go. And there might be just a clue to where the sword is hidden, if it’s not here. A key, a note, anything.”

Ron sighed. “Let’s go upstairs. I think you and I were still in nappies the last time anyone was in this room.” Clearly the Potters had not had anything Voldemort wanted, other than Harry.

The stairs groaned ominously as they made their way up. Ron knew from the outside of the house that to the right was Harry’s nursery, and he could feel the cold gusts of wind coming in from where the wall was missing. He pushed open the door on the left side of the landing, into what must have been James and Lily’s room. There was a faded Gryffindor banner on one wall, and gold sheets peeked out from beneath a rumpled scarlet bedspread; it seemed an appropriate enough place to hide the sword of Gryffindor. Ron jumped at a loud bang behind him, and turned to see the dresser rattling. “Must be a boggart,” Hermione said, training her wand on it.

“You go.” Ron shuddered, thinking of the last time he’d seen one. “I’d rather see McGonagall than a giant spider.”

Hermione glanced at him, then back to the dresser, and paled slightly. “I don’t think it will be Professor McGonagall anymore.” She didn’t elaborate, but whatever she was thinking about had clearly shaken her.

“Well, alright, just skip the dresser then.”

“No, no, we came here to do this. Let’s just...” Hermione trailed off, took a deep breath, then flicked her wand and sent the drawers flying open. Out of the dresser emerged a wispy, ghostly version of Hermione. She looked, frankly, awful: her eyes were bloodshot, her skin seemed to have lost all color, her clothes were tattered, and her bushy hair was swirling in a huge knotted cloud around her head. Most strangely, the figure was surrounded by a sort of dark fog that seemed to stretch its inky fingers out towards them. Ron wasn’t quite sure what fear of Hermione’s this was meant to represent, but he wasn’t going to ask. The real Hermione was frozen, staring at the odd reflection of herself.

“Come on, Hermione, you can do this,” Ron encouraged her. She glanced at him, then back at the boggart. Hermione said the banishing spell, softly and to no effect. Ron raised his wand, ready to intervene if necessary. “It’s okay. It’s not real.”

The boggart Hermione didn’t move, just stared at them with her cold, unseeing eyes, but the fog around her seemed to be growing darker, more dense, and it seemed to be stretching further into the room. Ron moved behind the real Hermione and placed a tentative hand against her back. She took another shuddering breath, then shouted, “ _ Riddikulus _ !” The boggart figure began to spin, swirling the darkness around her into a funnel cloud that got smaller and smaller until it finally vanished.

The real Hermione went immediately to the dresser and began poking around in the drawers. “Are you okay?” Ron asked.

“I’m fine,” she replied briskly. “Let’s just hurry up and be done with this.” Ron watched her rifle through the contents, knowing that she was absolutely not fine, but also knowing better than to press her on it. After a moment, she pulled out a small gold key and held it up in the light from her wand.

“That’s a Gringotts key,” Ron said, recognizing it immediately. Hermione turned to face him.

“It can’t be to the Potters’ vault, Harry has that.” She held it out for his inspection. “Is there a way to tell whose it is?”

Ron shook his head. “The goblins would know, but otherwise no.”

Hermione pocketed the key and continued her search of the dresser. The rest of the room didn’t turn up anything, so they finally moved across the landing to Harry’s nursery.

What the rest of the house had lacked in damage, the nursery made up for. The wall at the front of the house was entirely missing, charred around the edges where the rebounded curse must have struck. The once-white crib was also missing a large chunk where the edges were blackened, and the parts that hadn’t been blown away by the curse were filthy with sixteen years’ worth of dirt and dust blowing in. The roof sagged down over the missing wall, so low in most of the room that Ron had to hunch to walk around. The other furniture had been shoved around and toppled over, probably Lily’s attempts to save her son.

“Gotta tell you, I think this is the first time I’ve been glad Harry’s not here,” Ron said as he stepped over an upturned toy chest. Hermione looked at him sharply, and he continued in defense, “You really think he needs to see the room where his parents died? Looking like this, like it happened yesterday?”

“I suppose not,” Hermione admitted. “Though I think Harry would disagree. He’s a bit of a masochist that way.” She tread lightly to the corner of the room, and Ron heard the floor creak under her feet. “Ron, look.”

She was pointing to the opposite corner, beneath the crib. Ron bent to see what she was looking at and saw something shiny there. Hermione started toward it, and Ron heard another groan of the floorboards as she moved. “Hermione, be careful.” She bent to reach for the unknown golden object, and as her weight shifted, a large chunk of the hardwood nearest the missing wall cracked and splintered, dropping Hermione a foot into the floor. Ron reached for her hand as she tried to escape the hole in the floor but before they could connect, the rest of the corner of the room gave way and sent Hermione free-falling into the sitting room below.


	11. Chapter 11

Everything hurt. Hermione coughed into the dust cloud that surrounded her and reached for her ankle, which felt like it needed the most immediate attention, though her head was also throbbing quite painfully.

“Hermione!” She could hear Ron’s yell from above, followed by his thundering footsteps as he raced down the stairs and into the sitting room where she had landed. “Oh, thank Merlin,” he breathed when her eyes met his. Ron crouched next to her and made to reach for her, but his hands hovered uncertainly. “What hurts?” he asked finally.

“My ankle, mostly, but—ow!” Hermione tried to sit up, but her back protested sharply.

“Okay, don’t move.”

“You were right,” Hermione groaned. “It’s a crumbly old house.”

Ron didn’t even crack a smile at her attempt at humor, she noticed. His blue eyes were wide with poorly concealed terror. “We need to get out of here. Do you think you can apparate?”

“I don’t know.” Hermione struggled to sit upright, and Ron’s worried face blurred in front of her. She must have hit her head harder than she realized, because she was starting to feel dizzy. There was another creaking from above them, and Ron dove over her. She felt him wince as the shower of debris fell around them.

“I’m going to take down the wards, and then I’m going to apparate us out of here,” Ron said. “Okay?”

Hermione nodded, clutching at her head. “No, wait.” She looked around her for the object she’d grabbed from beneath the crib as she fell. It was sitting only a short distance away, shiny amongst the layer of dust. She pointed to it, and Ron reached one long arm out to grab it, stuffing it in his pocket hastily before waving his wand to take down their protective wards which included, among other things, an anti-apparition charm.

“Okay?” Ron asked again. She nodded once more as Ron gathered her to him and held her tightly. She felt the suffocating darkness of apparition, but the pressure was too much on her injured body, and then she felt nothing else.

Hermione had no idea how long it had been when she cracked her eyes open again, but at least her surroundings were familiar, lying on the sofa in hers and Ron’s new tent. Ron was sitting on the floor nearby, her bag open beside him, and the full range of potions Fleur had given her set out on the low table in front of him. He was studying the bottles, his furrowed brow so familiar to her, like he was revising for exams. “The blue one,” Hermione said. He jumped at the sound of her voice and moved immediately to kneel next to her head. “The blue one’s pain potion. You should take some too.”

Ron shook his head and grabbed the bottle. “I’m fine.” He had a long cut down his cheek that indicated otherwise, and Hermione reached out to trace it gently. Ron’s eyes drifted shut at her touch. “You scared the hell out of me,” he told her softly.

“How long was I out for?”

Ron opened his eyes to check his watch, then unstoppered the blue bottle. “Half hour or so.” He helped her sit up and take a drink of the potion before moving down to her feet. He had already removed her boot and rolled her pants leg on her right side, revealing her horribly swollen ankle. “Does it feel broken? Fleur sent us with some Skele-Gro, but I don’t think we have a swelling antidote.”

Hermione flexed her foot experimentally. “No, I think it’s just a bad sprain. Not much to do for it but wait, I suppose.” She slid up against the back cushions of the couch to make room for Ron to sit beside her.

“Can I make you some tea?” Ron asked anxiously. “Bloody hell, I shouldn’t have apparated you. I should’ve—“

“Ron.” She cut him off with a finger to his lips that surprised them both. She would normally never be this forward with him, but the pounding in her head and the gentleness with which he was tending to her made her disinclined to care about propriety just then. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

They stared at each other, a long moment of loaded silence. Finally, Ron reached out and gently brushed his fingers across her cheek. “You’ve got...” He reached for her bag and summoned a flannel from the depths of it, then conjured a shallow bowl on the table beside him and filled it with water from his wand. He wet the flannel and swiped it across the side of her forehead, and when he pulled it away, she could see streaks of red. “I was going to say blood—you hit your head pretty good—but actually, um...” He paused and chuckled, smiling slightly as he continued, “You’ve got dirt on your nose. Just...” He brushed his thumb across the bridge of her nose. “There.”

Ron’s hand remained resting against her cheek, eyes locked on hers. They were so close together on the sofa, and for once, Ron’s walls seemed to have completely come down. “Thank you,” Hermione said softly. “For taking care of me.” She leaned forward and dropped a light kiss on his cheek.

When she pulled back, Ron’s face was already flushing. He cleared his throat and let his hand drop to his lap. “Yeah, of course.” He stood up and busied himself with the tea kettle.

“Where are we, by the way?” Hermione asked, suddenly realizing that she didn’t know.

“Same hillside from earlier, just outside the village,” Ron replied. “Didn’t want to risk apparating any further than we had to.”

Hermione nodded. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “What was it we found in the nursery?”

“Oh yeah, here.” Ron returned to the couch with two cups of tea, then fished in his pocket and handed her the shiny golden object. It was a heavy brooch in the shape of a lion, with tiny rubies for the eyes. She turned it over in her hand, but there were no markings on it to give them any clues as to its origins. Though it certainly  _ looked _ like something that could have belonged to Gryffindor. “What do you reckon?” Ron asked as she looked it over.

“I’m not sure. It’s jewelry, and it looks Gryffindor-esque, so that seems like it could fit the pattern for horcruxes. On the other hand, it could just be something of Lily’s that she was wearing that night.” She handed it back to Ron and sipped her tea.

“Any chance it’s actually Godric Gryffindor’s? Does  _ Hogwarts: A History _ mention the fancy pin he was wearing at the first Sorting ceremony or anything?”

“Unfortunately, no. Other than the sword, Gryffindor doesn’t really have any known possessions.” Hermione paused, thinking. “Although I wouldn’t say Slytherin’s locket was exactly famous, either. Nor that cup of Hufflepuff’s. You-Know-Who tracked those down through his job at Borgin and Burkes.”

Ron stared down at the lion in his hand. “It doesn’t  _ feel _ like a horcrux.”

“It doesn’t feel like the locket, you mean. We don’t know all that much about the magic the horcruxes hold. They might all do something different. Think of the diary,” Hermione pointed out.

Ron grimaced. “I’d rather not.”

“You know what I mean. The diary was basically sentient. That ring let out a curse on Dumbledore’s hand. The locket is just...awful.” Ron nodded. “So far, none of them have quite been the same.”

“I suppose protection isn’t anything we can go on, either,” Ron mused. “I’d expect it to be guarded if it really was a horcrux, but Malfoy put the diary right into Ginny’s hands.”

Hermione shrugged. “Maybe You-Know-Who thought the house itself would be enough.”

“It almost was.” Ron brushed his fingers again along the side of her forehead, right up against her hairline where she had hit her head. “In any case,” he went on, back to business, “we should assume that it  _ is _ a horcrux, and guard it accordingly.”

“Agreed.” Hermione yawned. She knew it must still be fairly early, but she was exhausted.

“Get some rest,” Ron said, tucking the brooch back into his pocket as he stood. “I’ll keep watch.” He pulled a blanket from the end of the couch and draped it over Hermione’s legs. He hesitated beside her for a moment, then, seeming resolved, bent down and dropped a lingering kiss on her cheek as well. “‘Night, Hermione.”

“Good night, Ron.” He turned and hurried out of the tent into the darkness. Hermione settled back against her pillow and let a smile stretch across her face as she fell asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Ron yawned as he watched the sun rise over Godric’s Hollow. Keeping watch by himself had made for a long night, but it was worth it to let Hermione sleep. He had looked in on her several times throughout the night, and she had slept soundly, waking only at one point around three a.m., when Ron insisted she take more of the pain potion and helped her hobble over to her bunk from the sofa.

Hermione’s harrowing fall aside, the trip into the Potters’ house had gone about as well as could be hoped. The dark magic they had feared had been a nonissue, and they had come out with an intriguing object that, at the very least, was out of place in the nursery where they had found it. Best case, it was another horcrux; two of the known horcruxes were possessions of Hogwarts founders, and Ron was sure there were few things Voldemort would enjoy more than turning something of Gryffindor’s into something so evil. Unfortunately, they had not found the sword, and they didn’t have any surefire way to identify the brooch as a horcrux, or not.

Then there was the (not-so) small matter of what had happened on the couch while Ron tended Hermione’s injuries. She had kissed him. Actually  _ kissed _ him, her lips brushing so gently against his cheek. She had done so once before, in their fifth year, and he had let the gesture pass sorely unappreciated, and worse, unreciprocated. At least he hadn’t made that mistake last night, returning her brief kiss before heading out on watch. The question now, he supposed, was whether it was too little, too late.

Ron stood and stretched before heading back into the tent. They didn’t so much have a kitchen, like they’d had before, but more of an area that they had designated for the storage of food and the few dishes they had brought from the Grangers’. Ron was heating the tea kettle with his wand when Hermione’s sleepy voice reached him from across the tent. “Good morning.”

“Hey.” Ron smiled at her and held the kettle aloft in question. “Tea?”

“Please.” Hermione sat up, her legs still buried in a mountain of blankets, and her hair billowing wildly around her, and Merlin help him, she looked adorable. It was the first full night of sleep she’d had in months, and even after last night’s accident, she looked noticeably healthier for it.

Ron walked over and handed her a mug as he sat gingerly on the edge of her bed. Her fingers brushed his as she took the cup, and he wondered vaguely if it maybe wasn’t an accident, but her face gave nothing away. “How are you feeling?” he asked her.

“Better,” she replied, sipping the tea. “Still a bit sore, and my head still hurts right at the spot where it hit, but I don’t feel dizzy or anything anymore.”

“That’s good.” Ron glanced toward her feet. “How about your ankle?”

Hermione grimaced and tugged at the blankets, revealing her ankle, which was still roughly the size of a grapefruit. “I’m afraid that’s going to be a problem for a while.”

“You’re sure it’s not broken?”

“Not entirely, but breaks don’t really swell like that. And it doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as if it were broken.” Ron raised a questioning eyebrow at her. “I fell off my bike when I was seven,” Hermione explained. “I had to wear a cast, but only for about half the time I should have. When they took me in for a check up, my arm had miraculously healed itself.” She chuckled. “Of course, now I know it was—“

“Magic,” Ron chimed in, laughing with her. “Bet you were the talk of the hospital after that.”

“They chalked it up to not being as bad a break as they’d originally diagnosed. Of course, once we found out I was a witch, it made sense.” Hermione smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Okay?” Ron asked hesitantly.

“I miss them,” she replied honestly, and Ron knew she meant her parents. “I know I would go without seeing them while we were at school, but that’s not really the same.”

“No,” Ron agreed. “It’s not.” He felt the same about his family. Of course, he had never been at school without at least one of his siblings there with him, but his parents were only an owl away, then. Out here, they had no one but each other, and no way to know that their loved ones were safe. Though in Hermione’s case, he was confident that her parents were fine. Well, having their memories modified and lives uprooted to Australia without a daughter they couldn’t remember wasn’t exactly  _fine_ , but he was sure they were physically safe.

He hated seeing the sadness on Hermione’s face, so he changed the subject. “I was thinking about going into the village to grab some breakfast for us,” he ventured. “And maybe that muggle apothecary, see if they’ve got something for your ankle?”

It worked; Hermione smiled fondly at him. “It’s called a pharmacy. And yes, I suppose they would. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Ron shrugged. “You said we’re safer acting like Muggles, might as well commit. You’ll have to tell me what to look for, though.”

Hermione hesitated, frowning slightly. “I’m not terribly keen on you going out alone.”

Ron frowned back. They’d had this discussion plenty of times already, with Harry too, and it had usually ended in Hermione relenting and one of them venturing out under the Invisibility Cloak they no longer had. But at least Ron had a solid argument this time. “You can’t walk.”

“I know, I just—“ Hermione cut herself off with a huff and looked down at the blankets in her lap. “What if something happens to you?” she finished softly.

“Nothing will,” he replied confidently.

She glared half-heartedly at him. “You can’t know that.”

“Hermione, we’ve been in the town for basically two whole days. It’s as safe as anywhere. And I’ll be quick.”

“Safe as anywhere isn’t saying much these days,” she sighed. She still looked reluctant but reached for her wand all the same to transfigure his looks. “You still have muggle money?” Ron nodded. “In the pharmacy, you’ll most likely want to look for the first aid aisle. Anything that’s meant for treating inflammation ought to be fine. And Ron?” She reached for his hand. “Please be careful.”

He gave her small hand a reassuring squeeze. “I will. I’ll be back soon.”

Ron started the walk into town. As he approached the Potters’ house again, he thought about what Hermione had asked him last night, about what he would say to Harry if he had the opportunity. Their emergency exit hadn’t given them a chance to leave a message on the sign out front. Ron paused in front of the house and touched the gate so that the sign would reappear.

He felt sure Harry would make his way to Godric’s Hollow sooner or later. Probably sooner, without Hermione there to talk him out of it. It was tempting to remain camped on the outskirts of town, waiting for him to show, but Hermione was right; they had to stay committed to the hunt. And if and when Harry did show up, and found his way to his old house, and read the messages of support, Ron would want him to read...what?

It wasn’t a proper place for long-winded apologies. And he was sure signing his name wasn’t a good idea; after all, as far as the wizarding world knew, he was still laid up at the Burrow with spattergroit. But this was his best opportunity to get a message to Harry. So he pulled out his wand and etched in glowing graffiti among the other messages:

_ We’re still searching. R+H _

It was the most important thing for Harry to know, that they were still out there, on the mission. Maybe knowing that would be enough to keep him going, too.

Ron continued on into town. The hours on the pharmacy door noted that it wouldn’t open for a half hour, so he crossed the square towards the cafe. As he did, the war memorial in the middle caught his eye. From this angle, the elaborate Christmas tree was behind it, and he could see the obelisk unobstructed. But there was something...not right about it. As if the edges were blurry. Ron stepped closer to it, and then realized why.

The obelisk disappeared, shifting in front of his eyes to a statue of Harry and some woman holding a baby. No, that was wrong; Harry  _ was _ the baby, of course, and the man and woman were his parents. “Bloody hell,” Ron whispered to himself. If the rest of the wizarding world had seemingly forgotten about Godric’s Hollow, the magical community of Godric’s Hollow certainly hadn’t forgotten about their part in saving it. And they definitely hadn’t forgotten Harry and his family. Shit, if Harry did make his way here, he might never leave.

He would tell Hermione about the statue when he returned, and she would probably want to see it, though how they would manage to get her into town on her injured ankle he wasn’t sure. Hopefully he would be able to scrounge up something useful at the pharmacy.

The little bell over the door chimed as Ron entered the cafe, empty this morning except for one of the same old men from their first trip into town, and the same young waitress from before behind the counter. She smiled at him, but it wasn’t quite as welcoming as their initial meeting. “You’re still here,” she greeted him. “I didn’t see you at the tree-lighting last night, so I thought maybe you’d gone.”

“Oh, er, no. Just had, y’know, other plans,” Ron replied vaguely, taking a seat at the counter. “We’re leaving soon. Just came into town to grab some breakfast to take back.”

“Breakfast in bed. That’s sweet.” Ron felt himself blush at the implication, but found he didn’t really want to correct her; it made for a nice visual, even if it would never really happen. “What can I get you?”

Ron was about to order when the bell above the door sounded again, and he turned quickly to see who had caused the noise. He could hear Hermione’s words in his head from the other day, about not having her back to the door, but it was only the old man leaving. Ron held in a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived; when he spun his stool back around to face the counter, the waitress had a wand pointed at his face, and any semblance of friendliness was gone from her expression. Ron immediately drew his wand as well, though the fact she hadn’t cursed him when she had the chance was a good sign. But of  _ course _ she was a witch. Of  _ course _ he was going to end up in a duel after Hermione had been so concerned about him coming into town alone. Bloody buggering hell.

“I saw you looking at the Potter statue,” she said before he could even form the question. To pull her wand on him, she could either tell somehow that he was a wizard, or she had no problem obliviating (or killing, Ron thought anxiously) Muggles. “Now. Who the bloody hell are you?”


	13. Chapter 13

Hermione watched Ron leave the tent and tried to ignore the way it turned her stomach into knots, watching him go.  _ He’s just going into town_, she reminded herself sternly.  _ He’ll be back soon_. But her heart wouldn’t stop thundering in her chest, and her eyes refused to leave the tent flap he had disappeared through.

She had feared losing Ron (and Harry, too, though Harry was a different matter) for years now, but it had never hit quite so close to home as it had the other night, when he’d walked out of a different tent, under decidedly different circumstances. She feared for Harry’s general safety and well-being, but it was a dull background noise that she had learned to live with since he had first faced Voldemort, aged eleven. The manners in which she could lose Ron (and nearly had) were more varied: rows about pets. Yule Ball dates. Enchanted brains. Girlfriends. Horcruxes. Not to mention having to worry about his general safety and well-being, as well; after all, they were at war. But as she raised her wand to seal the tent flap from the chill outside, she couldn’t quite pinpoint whether she was more afraid of him not coming back because something happened to him, or not coming back because he didn’t want to.

She sighed and scolded herself mentally. He had told her, the night at Bill and Fleur’s, in rather more detail than she expected to get from him, about the things he had felt wearing the locket. And she and Harry really hadn’t been terribly understanding about his family, or the things  _ he _ had given up to come on the hunt, which had probably led him to more easily believe what the locket was making him think, things he should have easily been able to dismiss. So she was coming to accept that it wasn’t really  _ Ron _ that had left her, so much as it was the locket. She had begun thinking of it almost like an  _ Imperius _ curse of sorts, though that wasn’t really accurate. Besides, the locket was gone now. Well, not  _ gone_, she remembered with a groan, but they didn’t have it anymore.

A fresh wave of guilt crashed over her, and she wondered how Harry was getting along without them. Probably racing headlong into danger, without her there to stop him. She hoped he would have taken up some other way to guard the locket, rather than wearing it nonstop. The three of them taking it in shifts had been bad enough, but to wear it alone, all the time?

Hermione shook her head. She needed to do something to keep busy while Ron was out, or she was going to go insane. She summoned  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard_, and it came soaring out from where it had been in Ron’s bag. She had read the book several times through, since it had been bestowed on her on the morning of Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but had yet to come to any sort of conclusion about why Dumbledore had left it to her. It was obviously meant to be more than just a source of entertainment on what the old wizard must have known would be a long and arduous (and for the most part, uneventful) hunt for the remaining horcruxes.

There had to be some sort of significance to the book, or the stories within. But the tales were nothing new or earth-shattering; Ron, raised in a magical household, had heard them all growing up. Hermione turned the thin book over in her hands, looking for clues. She thought about the snitch that Dumbledore had left Harry, and their theory that something was hidden inside the winged ball. Of course, that had proven false. Other than the brief, cryptic message, the snitch had not reacted in any way to Harry’s touch, not the morning of the wedding, and not at any point after. Then there was Ron’s Deluminator, which again,  _ had _ to have more purpose than just turning lights on and off.  _ But what? _

Hermione was starting to wonder if she and Ron weren’t at a decided disadvantage on this hunt. After all, much of what they had to go on was deciphering obscure clues left to them by Dumbledore, who was by far the most eccentric wizard she had known. And she didn’t know Dumbledore that well. Nor did Ron. Even Harry had struggled with the headmaster’s intentions over the years, and he was much closer to him than the other two had ever been.

She flopped backwards onto her pillows and reached for Ron’s watch, which he had left sitting on the bedside table. He had been gone all of six minutes. Hermione groaned and went back to staring at the tent flap, waiting for him to reappear. She slipped his watch onto her wrist, not even needing to unfasten the clasp to slide it over her hand. Poisoning, she thought wryly, remembering Ron’s seventeenth birthday, add that to the list of ways she had almost lost him.

She wondered, as she had that day and on multiple occasions since, what they were waiting for, really. They had both made moves, sort of, though in Hermione’s opinion, she had been the more forward of the pair, and Ron had been the one holding back. But then there had been the wedding.  _ Merlin_, the wedding; she’d danced with him until her blisters had blisters and couldn’t have cared less because they were just having the best time together, and she had thought at a couple of moments that he might actually kiss her...but then, of course, the Ministry had fallen, and Death Eaters were coming, and they were suddenly on the run for their lives.

But then that night, at Grimmauld Place, he had fallen asleep holding her hand. And neither of them had really taken initiative since then to bridge the gap, much less come out and actually  _ confess _ their feelings. True, the mission had taken precedence after that, but at the same time...

She looked down at Ron’s watch again and fiddled anxiously with the clasp, holding it in place as it hung loosely from her wrist, much too big for her. It had now been half an hour since Ron had headed into town. He had said he would be quick, but she wasn’t sure when she should reasonably expect him back. She knew it would take time to walk into town and back, and he had to go to both the pharmacy and the cafe. Hermione frowned at the thought of that second stop; she hoped that waitress wasn’t in there this morning. If she’d found it appropriate to flirt so blatantly with Ron with Hermione sitting right there, she would surely take a shot with Ron alone. Not that Hermione had any claim to Ron, but that waitress didn’t know that. And not that it would be exactly prudent for Ron to take on a relationship in the middle of a horcrux hunt, though he didn’t really even seem to have noticed the girl’s attentions, much less cared.

Hermione huffed and picked up the book again, resolving to read it while she waited for Ron to return. She had read the tales within so many times now that she practically had them memorized, but she forced herself to focus. Maybe there was some sort of code hidden within the pages; she looked for anything that seemed unusual, words that were randomly capitalized, pages mis-numbered, anything. But she saw nothing of the sort.

She struggled to get through the entire book, not allowing herself another glance at Ron’s watch until she had finished it. Finally closing the book and dropping it hastily, she spun Ron’s watch up to face her. It had been well over an hour now, and the feelings she had told herself were just unwarranted anxiety ratcheted up quickly to outright panic.

_Where the hell was he?_


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up immediately where ch12 ended.

Ron held his wand steady as he stared back at the waitress. “I can’t tell you that,” he replied.

She flicked her wand to the side, and he heard behind him the sound of the door locking and the flapping of blinds being lowered. “Try again,” she said icily.

He obviously couldn’t tell her the truth, and since he was lacking the trademark Weasley red hair at the moment, he could get away with that. But he wasn’t sure what kind of all-out lie he  _ could _ get away with, especially having no idea where her sympathies lay. She hadn’t hexed him when his back was turned, and a Death Eater was likely to curse first and ask questions later, so he thought he was safe assuming she was at least somewhat neutral, if not on their side. “We’re with the Order,” he answered finally, taking a shot. They had never been formally inducted, but that was true enough.

The waitress—Amy, he read from her nametag—faltered slightly with her wand hand but didn’t lower it. “The Order?” she repeated skeptically. “The Order of the Phoenix?”

Ron swallowed nervously but kept his wand trained steadily across the counter. “Yes.”

She scrutinized him for a long moment. Finally, she tucked her wand into the pocket of her apron and asked, “So the Order is real?”

Ron lowered his wand but kept a grip on it in his lap, not wanting to let his guard down again. “What do you mean is the Order real? Of course it is.”

She rolled her eyes and poured him a cup of coffee. “I honestly thought it was just one of Mr. Dumbledore’s crazy stories. Especially seeing as You-Know-Who’s pretty much taken over the country without a fight.”

Ron fixated on her first sentence. “You knew Dumbledore?” If Dumbledore knew this girl, maybe she knew what he had done with the sword. Ron studied her, but neither her face nor her name were familiar, even though she didn’t look much older than him. “How long since you’ve been at Hogwarts?”

“Years,” she replied dismissively. That didn’t rule out her knowing any of Ron’s brothers, though, whose time at Hogwarts had by now spanned nearly two decades, so he would still have to keep his mouth shut about his identity. “I had to drop out early when my mum got sick, and she homeschooled me after that. Professor Dumbledore would drop in from time to time to check on us, and he always had the wildest stories. His family used to live here, you know?”

Ron nodded. “I know. When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Oh, it’s been ages. Two or three years, at least.” Well, that ruled out the sword; it had hung in the headmaster’s office much more recently than two or three years ago. “I suppose if you’re really with the Order, you can’t tell me what you and your girlfriend are doing here, then?”

“No,” Ron replied, again not correcting her assumption about Hermione. Merlin, Hermione; she’d be worried sick about him if he didn’t hurry back. “The first morning we were in here, we heard you mention Bathilda Bagshot.”

Amy chuckled. “She has wild stories too.”

“Is she alright? You were worried about her.”

“She was at the tree-lighting for a few minutes last night. Looked a little peaky, but she seemed mostly fine. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her; she didn’t stay. Why do you ask?”

Ron shrugged. “Just wondering if you had any dark wizards lurking about that might have had you worried.”

“Mrs. Bagshot is a very old woman. A strong gust of wind could take her out. And I should think the Death Eaters would have more formidable enemies to pick off before they came for her. Harry Potter, for example.”

She said it sarcastically, and Ron did his best to keep his face impassive. “Harry Potter has been here? You’ve seen him?”

Amy shook her head. “Not that I know of. He’s in hiding, supposedly. Even on  _ Potterwatch_, nobody has seen him.”

“ _ Potterwatch _ ?” Ron repeated.

“You don’t know  _ Potterwatch_?” He saw her hand twitch toward her wand again, but she refrained from grabbing it. “I thought the Order was running it?”

“I thought you thought the Order was made up,” he volleyed back.

“Maybe it’s just people on that side. Anyway, it’s a program on the wireless. You’ve got a wireless, haven’t you?” Ron shook his head; the radio he’d brought from the Burrow was, like so many other things, with Harry. Amy’s eyebrows raised quizzically. “You’re not much of a spy, then, are you?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “I’m not a spy. And we had a wireless, but it’s lost.” That was also sort of true.

“We’ve got a spare you can take. Consider it Godric’s Hollow’s contribution to the war effort.”

“Er, sure, thanks.” Ron glanced at his wrist, before realizing that he had left his watch back at the tent. “I should get going. Got to stop at the pharmacy, as well.”

For the first time, Amy looked concerned. “What for? Haven’t you got potions? Haven’t you got  _ anything_?”

Ron didn’t appreciate her tone, but that was probably because her words struck a nerve. After all, they  _ had _ been prepared, before Ron had gone and left. “My—“ he faltered on the word, but pushed it out anyway, as he couldn’t say who Hermione really was “—girlfriend, twisted her ankle. And no, we haven’t got a swelling antidote.”

“Wait here.” Amy disappeared through what Ron thought was the door to the kitchen. When she returned, she was carrying an assortment of items, which she began handing to him across the counter. “Wireless.  _ Potterwatch _ isn’t on every night, but when it is, there’s a password, and it changes. Next one is Fawkes. Deflating Draught, for that ankle. And something to read.”

The last item was a book in a putrid shade of green. “ _ The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore _ ?” Ron read from the cover. Harry had mentioned the book to him after overhearing some chatter about it at the wedding, but Ron had long since forgotten its existence.

“My mum’s already read it and put it in a box to get rid of, and I’m not much of a bookworm, myself. But if you’re asking about Dumbledore, you might find your answers in there.”

Ron shoved the items into his rucksack with a muttered thanks. He thought it might be a bit rude, but he had to ask. “Why are you helping me?”

Amy flicked her wand to reopen the shades and unlock the door before tucking it out of sight; Ron did the same. “Nobody just stumbles into Godric’s Hollow,” she answered quietly. “If you’re here, there’s a reason. And if you’re actually with the Order, I’m betting it’s a damn important one.” She stuffed a few pastries into a paper bag and handed it to him. “Good luck out there.”

Ron hurried out of the cafe and back to the road out of town. Hopefully Hermione wouldn’t be too ticked at him for how long he’d been gone, and if she was, well, at least he had a new book to give her as a peace offering.

Hermione had managed to get herself from the bunk to the sofa, and he instantly felt bad when he saw her. She was biting at her nails; he hadn’t seen her stressed enough for that particular nervous habit since third-year final exams, with that bloody Time Turner of hers. As soon as she saw him, she leapt up on her one good foot. “Oh, Hermione, don’t,” he said, hurrying over to her before she could try to get to him. She threw her arms around him as soon as he was close enough.

“Are you okay?” she asked urgently.

“Yes, I’m fine, but I—ow!” At his words, Hermione had pulled back and smacked him in the arm. “What was that for?”

“What took you so long?” she demanded. Her bottom lip was quivering almost imperceptibly, and Ron could tell she was more scared than angry. He grasped her elbow gently and pulled her back down to the couch.

“Sit down, I’ve got loads to tell you.”

He went through his whole trip into town, starting with leaving the message for Harry and then seeing the statue in the town square, followed by his odd confrontation in the cafe. Hermione’s frown got deeper and deeper the more he talked. When he finally finished, she sighed heavily and said, “Please tell me you still went to the pharmacy.”

“No need, I told you, she gave me an antidote,” Ron replied, fishing in his bag until he procured the little bottle. He held it out for Hermione’s inspection, but she turned her nose up at it like he was asking her to drink Dogbreath Potion or something.

She folded her arms across her chest and said haughtily, sounding so much like her old bossy self that he almost laughed, “You can’t honestly expect me to drink a potion from someone we don’t know just because she chatted you up. And pulled her wand on you, or have you forgotten that already?”

“Chatted me up? You’re barking.” Ron shook his head, filing this away for further examination later; after all, what did Hermione care if she had, anyway? “Hermione, we have allies out there. We sort of knew it, but this makes it, I dunno, real somehow. We’re not the only ones fighting You-Know-Who; she wants to help.”

Hermione huffed indignantly and stood on her one good foot. Ron reached out to steady her but pulled his hand back at her narrowed gaze. “Or she’s a wannabe Death Eater who saw a chance to  _ poison us _ , and batted her eyelashes at you and took it.” Hermione reached for her wand, and Ron saw something glinting beneath the edge of her sleeve. Was that—? No, surely she wasn’t—but it was. She was  _ wearing his watch_. But before he could analyze the possible implications of  _ that_, Hermione was off. “We’ve been foolish, Ron, absolutely foolish. I thought we’d be safe, just the two of us, that we could hide in plain sight, sort of, but if we keep interacting with people, someone is going to put two and two together, and we’re going to get caught. Just because your hair’s brown and not red—“ She waved her wand and changed it back as she spoke. “—doesn’t mean you don’t still look enough like you, and the two of us together, it’s even more obvious. Merlin, Ron, what if she  _ was _ a Death Eater? Or a Snatcher? At the very least, we look like we’re on the run from Hogwarts. We can’t be caught, we absolutely can’t be. We’ve got to keep moving. We’ve got to get out of here. We’ve done what we came here to do, let’s just pack the tent and  _go_.” Hermione finished her speech and looked at him imploringly.

He knew that she was right, as usual. Nothing bad had happened  _ this _ time, but the more reckless chances they took, the less likely it was that they would keep coming out unscathed. They needed to keep to their original plan, and keep moving. But there was still the fact that, “Hermione, you can’t—“

“Walk,” she interrupted with gritted teeth. “I  _ know_, Ron.” She touched her toes to the ground experimentally and Ron saw her wince, even though she was trying to hide it. He fought off an eye roll; she was going to hurt herself further trying to prove a point. “I’ll just take an extra dose of pain potion to get through it. It’s more important we move the tent.” Ron sighed. That sounded like a terrible idea, but he knew when there was no sense arguing with Hermione, and now was definitely one of those times. He had apparated them and set the tent by himself the night before, anyway. It would be fine.

It was absolutely not fine.

Hermione had taken more than what Ron would have considered “extra” pain potion, and by the time they (he) had packed up the tent, he could barely get her to stand still long enough to get the tent into her bag. The abundance of potion had made her restless and giggly, and she was acting—not that Ron had ever seen Hermione in such a state to know for sure but—drunk.

“Come on, Hermione, time to go.” He held out a hand for her, and she limped over to him, wrapping both of her arms around one of his and nuzzling his shoulder. Ron thought he’d better get a grip on her, too, just to be safe, so he grabbed a handful of the back of her coat and apparated them north.

Ron made quick work of the tent and the protective enchantments surrounding it, then ushered Hermione inside. “You’re so good at this, Ron, you take such good care of me,” she slurred as he half carried her over to the bunks. He wasn’t sure what the proper protocol was about too much pain potion, but Hermione’s eyelids were getting droopy, so he thought a nap might be in order. Food probably wouldn’t be a terrible idea either, he mused as he deposited her on the bottom bed. Whether or not he could convince her to eat any of the cafe pastries, now that she thought the waitress was trying to poison them, was another matter.

Hermione had a firm grip on Ron’s shirt that didn’t loosen as he set her down. As she hit the bed, she tugged so that he came down with her, and suddenly, without warning, her lips were on his. His body reacted instinctively before his brain could catch up, one hand tangling in her hair, the other going to her waist as her lips moved against his. It was a brief moment of the most blissful oblivion before Ron made himself pull away. He wanted her— _Merlin_ , he wanted her—but not like this.

“Sleep it off, Hermione,” he said as he stood, his voice harsher than he intended. He pulled a blanket from the end of the bed and tossed it over her, not even able to meet her eyes before he escaped to the far side of the tent.


	15. Chapter 15

Hermione woke with a disoriented groan, her ankle throbbing worse than ever. She should’ve listened to Ron about that bloody pain potion, she should’ve...

Oh God. Ron.

He hadn’t noticed she was awake, sitting across the tent from her, his fringe flopping into his eyes as he had his head bent over a book she didn’t recognize. Probably for the best, at the moment, as she ran over the morning’s events in her mind. She had gone and gotten herself loopy on pain potion, Ron had taken care of her  _ again_, and then she had...

Hermione raised a hand to her lips, remembering. Yes, in a heady, throw-caution-to-the-wind combination of lingering fear for Ron’s safety, jealousy over that waitress, and a copious dose of pain potion, she had definitely  _ kissed Ron_.

Merlin’s pants.

She had sort of toyed with the idea of  _ them _ while he had been in town this morning, but this was definitely not how she had wanted to go about it. And of all the myriad ways she had envisioned their first kiss might go (everything from disappearing into a broom cupboard on prefect rounds to a romantic stroll in the orchard at the Burrow), drunk on pain potion had not ever entered her mind. Still, the feel of his lips on hers, his long fingers in her hair, in that brief moment before he pulled away...

Hermione stopped that train of thought in its tracks. He had pulled away. Of course he had. Of course he had, because he was her best friend, and he wouldn’t want to take advantage of her in such a compromised state.

Or because he was her best friend, and that was all he wanted to be to her.

Her heart clenched as she looked across the tent at him, still completely unaware of her gaze as he turned a page. It was the same uncertainty she had grappled with for years. Had their row after the Yule Ball really been about Viktor, about the idea of them together instead, or was Ron just annoyed about not having a date until the last minute and taking it out on her? The questions had started there and woven through the intervening years, a constant thread in the fabric of their friendship, with nothing concrete on Ron’s part to give her answers one way or another. She felt her intentions had been crystal clear in comparison, and maybe, she thought dreadfully, maybe Ron’s lack of action  _ was _ her answer.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, carefully not putting any weight on her right foot. Exactly as Ron had warned, she had definitely exaggerated her injury walking around on it without feeling the pain that would tell her to stop. “What are you reading?” she asked in opening. At the sound of her voice, Ron froze mid-page-turn but didn’t look at her.

“That book I got in Godric’s Hollow,” he replied, and there was a tightness in his voice that made her uneasy. “How are you feeling?”

_ Utterly humiliated _ probably wasn’t the answer he was looking for, so she replied, “Better, thanks.” She took a deep breath. “Listen, Ron, about earlier—“

“Forget it,” he said abruptly, his tone leaving no doubt that she should do just that. He flipped a couple more pages more quickly than he could possibly be reading them. “You were—it was—forget it,” Ron repeated with a shake of his head. He let out a huff of a breath, then changed the subject. “We’ve gone north, near the Welsh border. We should stay put for a few days while your ankle heals.”

“Right. Sure.” Hermione fought against the tears she knew were coming. It was not fair for her to expect anything from Ron. But it was only now that she was realizing exactly how high she had set the bar. Questions about Ron’s true feelings were still there, but somewhere between him muttering her name in a poison-induced sleep, and stroking her hair at Dumbledore’s funeral, and dancing with her ( _only _ her) at his brother’s wedding, the idea of them together had morphed in her head from an  _ if _ to a  _ when_. And in the space of one morning, it had now disappeared. “Anything interesting in the book?” she asked, forcing a normal tone.

“Not yet. But you read faster than I do, maybe you’ll find something.” Ron stood and walked over to her bunk, tossing the acid green book onto the bed beside her without looking at her. “I’m going for a walk.” Hermione wanted to protest, but he was already cross enough with her, so she kept quiet. He paused by the entrance to the tent, though, and added as if he’d read her mind, “I’ll stay inside the wards,” before he slipped outside.

Hermione rubbed furiously at her eyes and then reached for the book. Reading. Reading was good. Reading was distracting.  _ The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_, she read from the cover, and then groaned inwardly. She should’ve known from the color of the binding that this was that rubbish biography that Rita Skeeter had written and released over the summer. The chances of anything in it even being factually accurate seemed small, much less that she would have written anything  _ useful _ about the late Headmaster. But with nothing better to do, and no more leads to follow at the moment, Hermione opened the book and began to read.

Ron stayed outside until almost lunchtime, though true to his word, she could hear him moving around, never far from the tent. Hermione had slept through breakfast, so after reading a few chapters, she hobbled over to their makeshift kitchen area to make lunch for them. Ron hadn’t even let her apologize for her actions this morning, so a gesture of food would have to do.

She was about to call to him when he reentered the tent, and started when he saw her out of bed. “I made lunch,” she said, offering him the plate.

He still wouldn’t quite meet her eyes, his gaze focused somewhere over her shoulder, as he approached her. “You’re just going to keep messing up that ankle, you know,” he told her, but took the plate with a soft thanks.

“I’m not putting any weight on it.” She nodded down to her feet, where she was standing on her left foot alone, the injured right one held aloft.

“Do you...” Ron hesitated and rubbed at his neck. “Do you need help getting to the sofa?”

Hermione shook her head. Ron’s help would make it easier, but she had put him out enough already. “I’m okay.” She hopped the short distance to the couch and then summoned her plate over. Ron followed and sat as well, though with an entire cushion’s space between them. Hermione bit her lip, cursing internally at how uncomfortable she had made him. But their friendship had come back from worse. She would just do as he asked, and forget the whole thing. “How’s it looking out there?” she asked conversationally. “Decent spot to camp for a few days?” She barely remembered anything from their arrival, only that it had been another wooded area.

“Should be,” Ron replied with a noncommittal shrug. “Reckon we might get some snow later, though, there’s clouds rolling in.” They ate in silence for a few minutes before Ron ventured in return, “Find anything in that book?”

“How do you know I was reading it?”

Ron rolled his head around to her, eyebrows raised, and just a trace of a smirk on his lips; it was a reassuringly familiar look from him. “Are you serious? Hermione Granger and a new book? I’m surprised you didn’t  _ accio _ it right out of my hand.”

Hermione chuckled, then replied, “No, not yet. I’ll keep at it, though.”

She couldn’t quite decipher the tone of Ron’s voice as he said back, “I know you will.” They finished their sandwiches without any further conversation, and then Ron said as he stood, “I need to get some sleep. You okay for this afternoon?” She looked up at him, only then realizing how tired he must have been. He was well beyond a full day without sleep, having taken the entire watch last night by himself. And then had still managed to go into town for them, move the tent to an entirely new location, and take care of her. Merlin, Hermione thought guiltily, which one of them was the real liability on this adventure?

“Yes, of course.” Hermione reached for his plate, and he let her take it. “Take as long as you need.” He didn’t respond except to nod, and then shuffle over to their bunks, where he dropped unceremoniously onto the bottom bed and tucked under the blanket she had been using earlier.


	16. Chapter 16

Night had definitely fallen by the time Ron woke from the hours of sleep he desperately needed. He glanced around the darkened tent, his first instinct to look for Hermione; she was unsurprisingly curled up on the sofa with Rita Skeeter’s book, safe and sound. Ron sat up carefully, making sure not to hit his head on the low upper bunk, before realizing with a jolt that there was no longer an upper bunk. The bed beneath him was different, too: longer and wider, and if he wasn’t mistaken, softer. He looked again over at Hermione, puzzled this time. “Did you transfigure the beds?” he asked drowsily. She set the book aside and stood immediately. “Hermione, your—“ But he cut his own protest short; her ankle, too, was looking much improved. How long had he been sleeping?

“I, um—“ She looked a bit embarrassed, fiddling with the hem of her jumper as she crossed the room and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, near his feet. “I took some of the Deflating Draught,” she admitted. “And yes, I transfigured the bed, and added a cushioning charm. With it just being the two of us, we’ll never be sleeping at the same time, so I figured we might as well have one comfortable bed instead of the bunks.”

The lingering memory of her kiss that morning had his mind instantly racing with other things they could do with a more comfortable bed before he forced the thoughts away. He had been a bit of a prat to her earlier, he knew, and even now could barely bring himself to look her in the eye. There were two opposite reactions warring within him, either of which would have been satisfying in the moment, though destructive in the longer run. Part of him, obviously, wanted to pull her to him and snog her senseless, consequences be damned. The other part wanted to row with her about it, demand to know what the hell she was playing at. The overdose of pain potion had lowered her inhibitions, sure, but there had to be some underlying motivation for kissing him, and he had a dreadful feeling that she was just lonely, missing Harry, and that Ron made for an acceptable stand-in. And if that was the case, he didn’t want to hear it. He had asked her to forget about it, and she seemed inclined to do so.

“So it wasn’t poison, then?” Ron teased, his best stab at normalcy between them.

Hermione folded her arms across her chest with an indignant huff. “We really can’t be too careful, you know. But, I...well, I trust you. I trust your judgment. And if you think she was alright, then...” She trailed off with a shrug. “It’s not fully better—that potion is really meant to be used as a counter active to Swelling Solution, and this was a purely physical injury—but it definitely helped. The wireless works too.” Ron realized that he could hear it playing softly in the background. “I can’t find that program she told you about, though.”

“It’s not on every night, she said. What time is it, anyway?” Hermione nodded to the small table beside the bed, where his watch now lay. Ron bit back a smirk as he reached for it; she probably hadn’t realized that he had noticed her wearing it earlier, and she certainly hadn’t made any effort to call his attention to the fact. It was just gone eight, Ron noted as he slid it back on.

“We should come up with a better plan for keeping watch,” Hermione said. “It’s not fair for you to be up all night, every night.”

Ron shrugged, unbothered. As long as he could catch up on his sleep during the day, he didn’t much mind. “Don’t reckon there’s any other way to do it, just between the two of us. If we try to alternate nights, that means staying up twenty-four hours straight to switch, and that’s not really any better.”

“We could still split the nights. That way we’re both getting at least a few hours’ sleep each night, and can catch up as needed during the day.”

Ron shrugged again. “If that’s how you want to do it. I’ll take first then, tonight?” She nodded, and they fell into an awkward silence for a moment before Hermione stood up and returned to the couch.

Five hours on a split watch went by a lot faster than sitting outside the whole night, but Ron was still glad to head back into the tent when it was Hermione’s turn to relieve him. She had taken another (appropriately sized) dose of the Deflating Draught, and felt confident that her ankle wouldn’t be a hindrance to their safety if anything happened on her part of the watch.

Ron sat on the edge of the bed that he had vacated not all that long ago and kicked his boots off. Hermione had not made the bed before heading outside, and suddenly, as he looked at the rumpled blankets, the idea of sharing a bed even if not at the same time seemed very...intimate. Ron stripped off his jumper and changed quickly into his pajama bottoms before sliding between the sheets. The bed was definitely more comfortable than before, but the scent of Hermione’s shampoo lingered on the pillow, and he was sure that this was simultaneously the best and worst idea she had ever had.

They passed the entirety of the next day without much conversation as Hermione went through her textbooks again and Ron pored over the map and their notes. Now that they had been to Godric’s Hollow, the only place either of them could think of as having any significance to Voldemort, it felt like they had hit another dead end.

The Wizarding Wireless Network played in the background most of the day, but it was more of the same Ministry-approved headlines on repeat. The best thing about that, though, was that it meant they could be reasonably sure of Harry’s safety; Ron felt certain that if he had been captured, it would be broadcast everywhere.

It wasn’t until their third (and last, insisted Hermione, whose ankle was doing much better) night at the new campsite that they were able to connect to the elusive  _ Potterwatch_. Ron was examining the golden lion brooch after dinner, having just cast what felt like the thousandth spell on it in hopes of revealing its secrets when Hermione called over to him. She was sitting on the floor next to the radio, which was now emitting a faint static. “I tapped it and said the password, and this happened,” she explained. It was the first time anything had happened in response to their efforts, so Ron sat down beside her and waited.

After a few minutes, the static cut off, followed by a moment of absolute silence, followed by a cheerful and familiar voice. “Hello out there, friends of the resistance, and welcome to another edition of  _ Potterwatch_.” They locked eyes above the radio.

“That’s Lee Jordan!” Hermione exclaimed in a whisper. Ron nodded back and motioned to quiet her.

“As always, I’m your chief correspondent, River, reporting to you live from an undisclosed location.”

“River?” Ron mouthed to Hermione, who shrugged.

“We begin our broadcast as usual with a moment of silence for the deaths that have gone unrecognized and unreported by the Ministry. It’s a short list tonight, but still we pay our respects to Mrs. Olive Brimby and Mr. Edward Silers, both of London. They have been reported to muggle authorities as missing persons, but unfortunately we know that they were both killed in a Death Eater attack in their muggle neighborhood. A moment of silence, please.” Lee went quiet, and Ron saw Hermione’s hand fist against the carpet. He hoped she didn’t have any lingering doubts about sending her parents away; if she needed more proof she had done the right thing, this was it. He reached over to rub her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting move.

“Thank you. And now, we turn it over to my buddy Romulus, for our Pals of Potter segment. Romulus, what have you got for us tonight?”

“Not much to report tonight, River, although in these dark times, no news is often good news.” Hermione grabbed at Ron’s arm as if to make sure he was hearing the same thing she was. He was, of course; the second voice was Lupin’s. “We have word from an inside source at Hogwarts that there will be dementors stationed at Platform 9 3/4 to await the train’s arrival for the Christmas break, so please, everyone, make sure you’re practicing those patronuses. And to those of you with older students who might usually get off the train on their own, a word of advice: not this year. Safety in numbers, folks.”

“Sound advice as always, Romulus. And as for news of our lightning-scarred friend, what’s the latest on Harry Potter himself?” Ron and Hermione both sat up straighter at this.

“Well, River, in this specific instance, no news is definitely good news. Harry, if you’re listening, just know we’re all behind you.”

“Right you are, Romulus. Well, that’s all we have for tonight’s edition of  _ Potterwatch_. The next password will be Prewett. Stay tuned, and stay safe.”

The radio went quiet again. Hermione reached over and flipped the switch to turn it off. “No news is good news,” she sighed, repeating Remus’s words. “I figure that’s true for everyone, not just Harry.” She looked pointedly at Ron, and he knew she meant his family.

“Yeah,” he sighed back. “S’pose you’re right.”

Hermione stood and patted Ron on the shoulder. “I’ll take first tonight, okay?” Ron nodded and watched as Hermione bundled up and headed out into the cold.


	17. Chapter 17

The days were beginning to drag. After their venture into Godric’s Hollow and the subsequent days of recovery, both Ron and Hermione were struggling to form a new plan. Every couple of days, they would move the tent to a new site, but they hadn’t dared go into another town, muggle or magical, and there hadn’t been another  _ Potterwatch _ broadcast since the first, so they were stuck without any outside momentum, and of course there was no new information inside the tent, either.

Being alone with Ron presented its own challenges, as well. They had spent plenty of time together, just the two of them, over the years—on prefect rounds, that summer at Grimmauld Place, all throughout last year during Harry’s excursions with Dumbledore—but they had never really been  _ alone_.

Hermione had plenty of thoughts about how they could spend their time (some more salacious than others), but any notion she had of acting on those thoughts had been dispelled the morning she had drunkenly kissed him. Surely if Ron’s thoughts were anywhere in line with hers (and she thought they must be; he was a teenage boy, after all), he would have done  _ something _ to act on them. In a way, she wanted to just hash things out between them, get it all out in the open once and for all, but that would seriously distract from the mission. Either way it went, really, as the end result would be either a blazing row or a heated snog, and Hermione couldn’t see herself much focused on horcruxes after either of those things.

So they carried on with a semblance of their old, easygoing friendship, though there was always a slight air of awkwardness around the things they couldn’t say. Obviously, neither of them had brought up the kiss again, and talking about Harry seemed a bit of a taboo subject as well. There wasn’t much to discuss there, anyway; on the rare occasions that one of them mentioned their best friend, all they could do was worry about him. It wasn’t as if there was news.

It was a couple of days before Christmas, by Hermione’s best estimation, when Ron emerged from the tent shortly after Hermione had started the first watch of the night. “You should be sleeping, you know,” she chided him. It wasn’t terribly late yet, but they needed to rest when they had the opportunity.

“I know. Soon. I will.” Ron shook his head and hurriedly sat down beside her. It was only then that she realized he was holding  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. “Look at this.” He held the book out to her, open to The Tale of the Three Brothers, and pointed to the small triangular symbol at the top of the page. “Have you got any of your runes books with you?”

“Yes, but that’s not a rune.” Hermione had noticed the symbol in one of her early readings of the book but hadn’t thought anything of it; the first page of Babbity Rabbity had a small flower on it, and several other stories had similar pictures.

“What, you’ve got the entire catalog of ancient runes memorized?” Ron returned, his tone light. “It’s got to be something, though. It’s not part of the book.”

Hermione bent to look closer at the page. “What do you mean?”

Ron leaned in as well, bringing a distracting whiff of his hair with him. Hermione willed herself to focus. “It’s drawn on the page. It wasn’t printed in the book. You can feel it.” He ran his finger over the symbol, and then Hermione did the same. He was right. It was barely noticeable, but the page was indented where the symbol was, compared to the absolutely flat lettering of the story.

“What do you suppose it means?” she asked curiously. “I assumed it was just part of the story.”

Ron shook his head. “Not any version I’ve seen.”

Hermione stared at the symbol for a moment, then looked over at Ron. His face was still so close to her, and she felt her breath catch. She looked away again quickly before she could do something stupid, like kiss him without the excuse of pain potion, and she felt Ron shift slightly away as he sat up straight. “It’s sort of familiar, but I can’t think where I would’ve seen it before.”

“Maybe in a 700-page alchemy text you picked up for a bit of light reading,” Ron teased. He was grinning when she glanced at him again after jabbing him playfully with her elbow. “D’you ever think maybe you read  _ too _ much? I mean, honestly,  _ you _ could’ve seen it anywhere. If Harry or I saw it in a book, that would really narrow down the options.” Hermione laughed, though there was a certain logic to his statement.

“I have never, and will never think that I read too much,” she retorted.

“Of course not.” Ron rolled his eyes jovially. “It’s alright, it’s one of the things I love about you.”

Hermione froze; this wasn’t the first time he had casually slipped the l-word into a conversation with her, seemingly without even realizing it. She knew on some level that he did love her, as his best friend, the way she loved him, the way they both loved Harry. Of course, there was a rather different, more complicated layer to her feelings for Ron. And truthfully, neither of them had ever said it outright to the other, at least not in a context that didn’t involve homework.

“Ron?” she said hesitantly.

“I mean, how many times have you saved our arses with something you read in a book, right?” His words came out so fast they might have all been connected. He clearly wasn’t going to say anything more revealing on the subject.

“Right,” she agreed softly. “Loads.”

“Yeah.” Ron hesitated, then stood. “Well, reckon I ought to get some sleep, like you said.”

“Yes. I’ll give some thought to the mark.”

“Good. Brilliant.” He sighed as he turned and headed back into the tent.

If she needed any more motivation to end Voldemort and this war, the idea of having a real conversation with Ron was certainly it. These indecipherable moments that still glimmered with hope of her feelings being returned were making her batty.

She and Ron traded places a few hours later with only muttered  _ goodnights _ exchanged between them. She was glad of her decision to expand the bed, but sharing a pillow with Ron was like sleeping in a vat of Amortentia. The scent was comforting, in a way, but on nights like tonight, it also made it difficult to fall asleep. She supposed she could duplicate the pillow so they wouldn’t have to share. But then again, she mused as she curled under the blanket, Ron hadn’t duplicated the pillow, either.

It wasn’t until after they had eaten dinner the following night that Hermione had a sudden memory about the rune-like symbol. Ron watched her as she shot up from the couch and rummaged through her bag until she pulled out  _ The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_. “Don’t tell me there’s actually anything useful in that book,” Ron said with a laugh.

“Don’t suppose it’s all that useful so much as informative.” She flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for, and then handed the book to Ron. “It’s a letter Dumbledore wrote to Grindelwald. Look at how he signed his name.” The A in Albus had been replaced with the same triangular symbol.

Ron sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “So it’s nothing, then?  _ Beedle the Bard _ was Dumbledore’s book. S’pose he just doodled this in there.”

“Looks that way.” Hermione sighed, too, and flopped onto the couch next to Ron. “What do we do, Ron? Where do we go from here?” She turned to face him. “Every lead we’ve thought we had has just been another dead end. Say the lion  is a horcrux, we still can’t get rid of it. And the snake? And You-Know-Who himself. How long are we meant to go on like this? I mean, what in the world made Dumbledore think that the three of us could do this?” She knew she was ranting a bit, but she was just so frustrated by their lack of progress.

Ron shifted towards her as well, smiling as he replied, “To be fair, we set the bar pretty high with that whole Philosopher’s Stone, escaping from a cave full of death threats as first years, thing.”

“I suppose.” Hermione smiled slightly back at him, but she didn’t really feel it, and it dropped from her face after only a brief moment.

“There’s not really any alternative, is there?” Ron went on, more serious now. “We end this war, or it ends us.”

“Is that supposed to cheer me up?” Hermione asked wryly.

“No,” Ron answered honestly. “But that’s the reality of things. Unfortunately.” He paused. “I think we need to put some blinders on. We’re getting lost looking for new clues and ignoring the ones we have. Dumbledore gave you that book, and the deluminator to me. Why?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione groaned. They had been over the objects a hundred times already, with no insight.

Ron shook his head. “Don’t get frustrated. Don’t think about anything else. There’s the snitch, too. That’s _all_ Dumbledore gave us, other than the sword, but we know what that’s for. Those three things. So let’s think. What’s odd about them? Have they got anything in common?”

Hermione tried to clear her mind and think only of the three bequeathed items, as Ron was suggesting. “Maybe...maybe they do something together? Maybe there’s a hidden message in the book that we could read with light from the deluminator? That doesn’t account for the snitch, but...”

Ron shrugged. “Worth a shot.” He stood and retrieved the deluminator and the book, opening the latter to The Tale of the Three Brothers. “If there’s a message, maybe the symbol is how Dumbledore marked the page?”

Hermione nodded; that seemed logical. She took the book from Ron and held it open. “There’s a reason he left these things to each of us,” she explained. “He could’ve just left it all to Harry.” It didn’t exactly make sense that a hidden message would only appear if  she held the book, but nothing about it made sense, really.

“That’s true.” Ron’s finger hovered over the lever on the deluminator. “Ready?”

She nodded again. She felt a sense of anticipation, hoping that maybe they were finally on to something. Without having the snitch there, the theory seemed flawed, but they had to do  _ something_.

Ron clicked the deluminator. She honestly couldn’t even remember the last time they had used it, relying on light from their wands and her bluebell flames, but she was certain that never before had a small blue orb emerged from it, as had just happened. “What is that?” Hermione asked. It hovered no more than a couple of feet from them, the light pulsing slightly. “Have you ever seen it do that?”

“Never.” Ron shook his head, staring at the blue orb. “Sort of looks like a portkey, doesn’t it?” He tentatively reached a hand out towards it, but Hermione grabbed at his arm to stop him. It  _ did _ remind her of a portkey, and if it somehow was, or had the same function, touching it was definitely a bad idea.

“Put it back,” she said nervously. The way Ron was looking at the orb made her uneasy. “I don’t like this.”

“Anything on the book?” Hermione looked down at the book in her lap. Nothing had appeared. She flipped quickly through the pages, but the deluminator’s strange blue light had revealed nothing.

“No. Put it back,” she repeated. “Please.” Ron did as she asked, clicking the deluminator again. The blue light disappeared, and Hermione sighed in relief.

“Well, that was different, at least. Though I don’t guess we solved anything.” Ron looked down at the object in his hand. “When things seem most dark...” he mused. “Maybe that’s what Dumbledore meant. You were feeling bad about the mission, and then this happens.”

“But he left it to  _ you_,” Hermione reminded him. “What have my feelings got to do with it?”

“You—“ Ron stopped himself, then took a deep breath and began again. “You are my best friend,” he said slowly, still studying the deluminator, not looking at her. “When you hurt, I hurt. When you’re happy, I’m happy. Dumbledore always thought there was something to that. The power of, you know, love and friendship and whatnot.”

Hermione stared at his profile. The urge to kiss him again and just let the chips fall where they may had never been so strong. He  _ had _ to feel something for her. He surely couldn’t say all that and  _ not _ , could he?

“You’re my best friend, too,” she replied softly before leaning in to wrap her arms around him. He returned her embrace, one hand running slowly up and down her back.

“We should start watch,” Ron whispered after a moment, but he didn’t make any move to get up.

“It’s Christmas Eve. Maybe we just...skip tonight.”

Ron laughed and pulled away. “Yes, because murdered on Christmas would be a cheery way to celebrate the holiday.” Hermione scowled. She knew he was right, but she didn’t want the moment to end. “We can take a break tomorrow. No research, no horcruxes. Just Christmas. Deal?”

She smiled up at him and nodded. “Deal.”


	18. Chapter 18

Ron headed out on watch, feeling again like he had said too much to Hermione. Not that he’d actually said much of anything, really. But it was definitely all there, between the lines. How much he cared about her. How much he loved her. She hadn’t seemed put off by it, though. Her reaction had been positive, at least, if not a declaration of her undying love in return.

He brought the deluminator out with him, pondering what had happened inside the tent as he stared down at the object in his hand. He couldn’t rationally explain what it was or what it meant, but the words he said to Hermione had tumbled out on their own, as if he just  _ knew _ the answer. That blue light did something. He was sure of it. Now they just had to figure out what that something was.

Ron thought about clicking the deluminator and letting the light back out to study it, but remembering the anxious response Hermione had had to it, he tucked it back into his pocket instead. Hermione didn’t do well with things she couldn’t explain; it was why she had stormed out of Divination all those years ago. Then again, her keen mind and logic had gotten them out of plenty of sticky situations over the years.

But Ron could be objective. He could think about this from both angles. If it was a sort of portkey, the risks of traveling with it were obviously great, even if it came from Dumbledore. They had no way of knowing where it would take them, and the last time any of them had encountered a portkey of unknown origins (albeit accidentally), it had resulted in Voldemort’s return and the death of Cedric Diggory. Even if it was something Dumbledore had set up, the headmaster had been dead for months, and a lot had changed in the wizarding world since.

On the other, less logical, hand, Ron couldn’t deny he felt a certain pull to the blue light, and its sudden appearance seemed to coincide with Hermione’s pessimistic mood. Even if they hadn’t figured out exactly what it meant yet, there was a timing aspect to the snitch— _ I open at the close_. Whatever the close was. And that seemed to hold true enough for the deluminator, as well. Every other time he had used it, all it had done was put out lights. Something about  _ this _ time was different, and that had to be significant. The objects were both waiting for something before revealing their hidden uses, and the deluminator seemed to have gotten what it wanted from them in order to function.

It felt heavy in his pocket, but Ron vowed not to do anything more with it without Hermione. It had by now been several weeks since they had left Harry, and she hadn’t brought it up since their early days on their own, but Ron still felt that he needed to make things up to her for leaving the way he had. It was his fault she was spending Christmas with him and not Harry. At least all three of them could blame Voldemort for not spending the holiday at home where they belonged.

They had been trying to conserve their resources, but if there were ever an occasion for a passing attempt at a full breakfast, Ron felt that Christmas was it. He woke up early so that he could have things ready when Hermione came back in from her portion of the night watch. Breakfast was all he could give her, after all.

The grin she bestowed on him when she returned to the tent was well worth the effort. “Ron, this is lovely,” she said as he handed her a cup of instant coffee. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I just wanted to do something nice for you. This isn’t exactly an idyllic Christmas.”

“We’ve had worse, haven’t we?” Hermione said wryly, and when she met his gaze over her coffee mug, he knew she meant last year. It was one of the only Christmases they hadn’t spent together since becoming friends. Although, Ron thought as the years whizzed through his memory, there had still been some doozies. It was Christmas Day when Hermione had accidentally Polyjuiced into a cat. The Yule Ball and its accompanying row had been on Christmas. His dad being attacked at the Ministry. But they’d weathered all that together, and none of it topped the pain and longing for her he had felt last year.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed with a chuckle. “Reckon we have.”

Hermione offered him a smile and sat down on the couch, skating over the moment with a surprising lack of awkwardness. “What was your best Christmas growing up?” she asked as she picked up one of the plates in front of her.

He sat down next to her and reached for the other plate. “I was probably about five. Bill and Charlie had both been at Hogwarts a couple of years, but Percy hadn’t gone yet. Anyway, they got me some sweets from Honeydukes. It was my first ever Chocolate Frog. Headmaster Dippet.” He paused, thinking how pathetic it sounded that a Chocolate Frog had really made his best Christmas, but Hermione was just smiling at his story. “Harry’s grandfather’s got a Chocolate Frog card, you know.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Does he really? No, I didn’t know that. Harry’s never mentioned it.”

“Not sure he knows. I never told him because I thought it’d be better as a surprise. Plus if he never found one, he wouldn’t be disappointed. Reckon he’s never gotten one, though. Or if he has, he hasn’t mentioned it to me, either.”

“Have you got one, then?”

Ron nodded. “Just the one. He’s not a very common card.”

Hermione was silent for a moment before she said softly, “You should tell him. Harry. When you see him again.”

“ _If _ I see him again,” Ron corrected her.

“No.” Hermione reached over and squeezed his hand. “ _ When _ .”

Ron smiled gratefully at her. “How about you, then? Best Christmas?”

“Well, it would have to be—“ Hermione cut herself off abruptly as both of them turned sharply toward the far side of the tent. If it weren’t for Hermione’s reaction, Ron would have thought he’d gone mental for sure. Because he couldn’t possibly have heard what he just heard.

Harry’s voice.

It was sort of distant sounding, but Ron was certain he had just heard Harry say his name. The sound had come from the direction of the bed. Next to which Ron had haphazardly dropped his jeans when he went to sleep, the deluminator still in the pocket. “It can’t be,” he said slowly, but he stood up to check all the same.

“Can’t be what?” Hermione asked, watching him.

He crossed the tent and pulled the deluminator from his jeans pocket. As he held it up to show Hermione, it happened again. Harry’s voice, not any clearer than before, said his name, along with some other garbled words he couldn’t quite make out, but he thought he heard “Burrow” among them. He walked hurriedly back over to Hermione.

The deluminator didn’t look any different, and though they both stared at it for several intense minutes, no further sound came from it. “What could this possibly mean?” Hermione asked, looking totally bewildered by this turn of events.

“You think it’s some way to communicate? Like that old mirror of Sirius’s?” Ron held the deluminator up and said clearly, “Harry. Harry, can you hear us?” But again, nothing happened. Ron put his finger on the clicker, but Hermione grasped urgently at his hand.

“Ron, don’t.” She shook her head frantically. “I don’t like this thing. That light last night, and now this?”

“It’s Dumbledore’s,” Ron reminded her. “He left it to me to use, it’s got to do something to help us.”

He didn’t like how uncomfortable he was making Hermione, but they were finally getting at something, and the deluminator was key. He linked their fingers together and held her hand tightly—partially to reassure her, and partially to make sure they weren’t separated if something actually happened—and then clicked the device. The same blue orb from the night before soared out in front of them. It didn’t look any different, but the pull Ron felt to it was stronger than before. He tried again: “Harry?” There was still no response, other than the rhythmic pulsing of the light. “I think we need to follow it,” Ron said softly. He still couldn’t explain what made him say it, but he felt certain about it.

Hermione’s fingers tightened around his almost to the point of being painful. “You must be joking,” she retorted, her voice tight with fear. “Follow it  _ where_?”

“I dunno.”

“Exactly.” She shifted around to face him but didn’t loosen her grip on his hand, probably thinking the same thing that he was. “Ron, think about what you’re saying.”

“Look, I know it sounds mental. I just know that’s what we’re supposed to do with it.” He looked at her imploringly, willing her to trust him. “It’s the right thing, Hermione. I know it is.”

She sighed heavily. “Put it away, then, so we can pack up.” She waited until he had returned the blue light to the deluminator to let go of his hand, then added as she stood, “If this leads us to the sword, I reserve the right to stab you with it.” Ron grinned at her as he got up to help her pack.


	19. Chapter 19

It was twenty quick minutes later that they had the tent packed and ready. Ron held the deluminator in his hand, and Hermione was absolutely terrified of what they were about to do. Following this mysterious light of Ron’s into the unknown seemed beyond Gryffindor courageous, teetering between reckless and downright stupid.

But Ron seemed so sure. And she wanted to trust him. It was just that the last time he’d followed his feelings based on his interaction with an inanimate object, he’d stormed out of their tent in the pouring rain. At least he wasn’t going without her this time, so that was something. Dumbledore had left the deluminator to Ron for a reason, though, and if it weren’t for blind faith in the late headmaster’s instructions, none of them would be out here hunting horcruxes in the first place.

Hermione took tight hold of Ron’s hand, and he smiled reassuringly at her before clicking the deluminator. Out again came the eerie blue light. It seemed to know what they were doing (as if  _ that _ were any comfort), because it hovered for only a moment before it floated slowly towards Ron. Hermione held her breath, trembling head to toe, and watched as the light vanished against Ron’s chest. One blink later, Hermione felt the pull behind her navel, but the familiarity of the sensation only increased her trepidation. It was a portkey, just like they thought. They were going somewhere.

Portkey travel was as dizzying as ever, but they landed safely in an open field, hands still joined. Hermione glanced anxiously over at Ron, but he appeared to be just fine, so she looked around them. They were, thankfully, alone, but there was also no obvious indicator of why they were there. “Why does this place look familiar?” Hermione mused.

“Because we’re near the Burrow,” Ron answered immediately. This didn’t seem to be the comfort to him that she might’ve thought it would be. “Why did it bring us here?”

“You tell me. Do you still...I don’t know. Feel it?” The light hadn’t returned upon their arrival, and Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of that. Although, to be fair, she wasn’t sure what to make of any of it.

“No.” Ron frowned and looked out across the fields. “It feels like we’re supposed to be here, though.”

“Ron, we—“ She hesitated, but she had to say it. “We can’t go home.”

“No, I know that. But there’s something here.”

She tried to suppress the frustration in her voice as she asked, “What, though?”

“I don’t know.” Ron sighed. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I want to have answers for you, I just don’t.”

“So...what now? Set up the tent?”

Ron still looked pensive, gazing in the direction of what she thought must have been the Burrow. “Yeah. Yeah, I suppose.” He finally, slowly, let go of her hand. She waited nervously for a moment, but nothing happened, so she opened up her bag and together they set the tent back up. Afterwards, though, they lingered outside despite the cold. Whatever the deluminator had sent them there to find, they weren’t going to find it sitting in a tent.

They kept a steady flow of conversation throughout the day, but both of their focuses were elsewhere. Hermione was relying heavily on Ron to alert her if he spotted anything that might tell them why they were there. But according to Ron, other than being an enclave of magical families, there was nothing significant about Ottery St. Catchpole and the surrounding countryside. Dumbledore had no known ties to the area, and neither did Voldemort.

Ron volunteered to take the first watch again, and Hermione reluctantly retreated inside only after Ron promised not to mess with the deluminator without her. By morning, he had decided that whatever purpose they had in the countryside was no longer there, and that they should try again. Hermione remained skeptical; after all, what could they be looking for that was  _ moving_ _?_ But sure enough, when they had packed up the tent again and Ron clicked the deluminator, out came the blue light once more.

Their second landing spot was familiar as well; it looked like the forest they had apparated to the night they’d left, though where exactly that was, Hermione still didn’t know. “Better place to hide something, I suppose,” she mused as she looked around at the dense woods and started pulling out the tent from her bag.

“Hermione,” Ron said slowly. “What if it’s not some _thing _ we’re looking for?”

Hermione looked across at him as they worked at the tent and knew immediately what he meant. “You think we’re following Harry.”

“We heard his voice, Hermione. How else do you explain all this?”

“I  _ can’t _ explain it, Ron, and nor can you!” she snapped, frustration getting the better of her. Ron frowned but kept working. “We need to keep looking for horcruxes. You know we do.”

“And  _ you _ know we haven’t had any leads since Godric’s Hollow!” Ron shot back, quickly on her level. “This is the closest we’ve been to progress in weeks, and you want to just ignore it because you can’t explain it? Because you can’t  _ feel _ it?”

“As I recall, you had a more acute  _ feel _ for the locket, too, and look how that turned out!” It was a low blow, and she knew it. Ron’s expression hardened.

“Tent’s done. So you can go back to the books you’ve read a hundred times, and I’ll just be out here with my  _ feelings_,” he snarled at her. He conjured a chair and flopped into it, his arms folded across his chest. Hermione knew she should apologize, but she was too fired up for it just then, and so was he, so she turned away from him and stalked into the tent.

Ron only popped inside for meals, and he did so without looking at or speaking to her. She finally poked her head out a few hours after dinner. “I can take the first watch tonight, if you want,” she ventured.

“I’m fine,” he returned coldly.

Hermione sighed and stepped outside next to Ron. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier. It’s not fair for me to keep holding it against you, what happened with the locket.” Ron shot her an annoyed look, but otherwise didn’t respond. She sighed again and headed back inside, knowing she fully deserved his reaction. She only hoped that he would actually let her take over the watch when it was time, and not try to tough out the entire night himself.

She wondered, as she curled up in the bed, if Ron was right. What if they  _ were _ chasing Harry? Was she really ready to give up on the idea of reuniting with their best friend after only two attempts? Then again, it wasn’t as if the blue portkey light was plopping them down in the middle of Perkins’ old tent; Harry was nowhere to be found, and nor was anything else they were looking for. It felt like the deluminator had raised more questions than it answered.

She was jolted awake only a few hours later by a loud clang, followed by a muffled swear from Ron, who had apparently dropped the tea kettle. He had his back to her as he bent to pick it up, and she thought briefly about just going back to sleep. But she hated the way they had left things today; there was far too much that had gone unsaid between them over the years, and the stakes were too high now to add to the list. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and said his name to get his attention.

It was impossible that Ron hadn’t heard her, but he acted as if this were the case. He abandoned the tea kettle and made to leave the tent again. “Oh, sure, Ron,” Hermione began, injecting venom into her tone, “just walk away again. That’s what you do best, isn’t it?” Being intentionally instigating wasn’t perhaps the best, or most mature, way to get him to engage with her, but it  _ was _ the most reliable.

He turned around and glared at her. “You don’t want to do this, Hermione,” he warned in a low voice.

“Don’t I?” She got to her feet. “Look, I said I was sorry, what else do you want from me?”

“ _ Sorry _ ?” Ron scoffed. “Sorry doesn’t change the fact that you have no faith in me. Maybe you never did, I dunno. You think you’re the only one who’s allowed to have an opinion on what the right thing to do is out here, and because you didn’t find the answers in a fucking book, you think it’s stupid.”

He turned to go back out into the cold, and though it sort of called up the memories of the night they had left Harry, the fact that it hadn’t turned her insides to marmalade told her on some level that whatever trust she’d lost in him that night had returned. She  _ knew _ he wasn’t leaving, just walking away from the argument. But she wasn’t done.

“I don’t think you’re stupid, Ron, I’ve never thought that, but you can’t deny certain similarities between the locket and the deluminator.”

“Says you!” he exclaimed as he whirled back to face her, eyes narrowed. “But  _ you _ are not the one who’s dealing with all this.  _ I am_. One’s an evil thing that wants us all to die, and one’s meant to help. And for someone with the  _ emotional range of a teaspoon_—ironic insult coming from you, Hermione, really—I think I’m doing alright sorting out which is which.”

There was a clear, undeniable difference between Ron with the locket, and the real Ron, but Hermione was jarred by how stark the contrast was now in the midst of a row. Locket Ron had been mean. This Ron, the Ron she’d fought with across nearly every inch of Hogwarts, could row with her on the same level, but because he was passionate, and defended what he believed in, and wasn’t afraid to challenge her, and she knew it was a big part of why she had fallen in love with him.

“Ironic?” Hermione repeated, bristling as she stepped closer to him. “I don’t see how it’s ironic, when you’re more in tune with the thoughts of some ancient trinket than those of your best friend!”

Ron let out a bark of a laugh; it was not a happy sound. “Spot on, Hermione, you’re right. I don’t have one sodding clue what you’re thinking, because by this point, I’d presume you’d be willing to try just about anything to find Harry.”

His statement was puzzling enough to take just a bit of the wind out of her sails. “Aren’t you?” she retorted. “He’s your best mate, aren’t you worried about him?”

“Yeah,” Ron snorted sarcastically, “because that’s why  you want to get back.”

“What are you  _ talking _ about?” she groaned, more confused than ever. “This isn’t even  _ about _ Harry, this is about  _ you_. Following this—this  _ thing_, and not even giving a second thought to how I might feel about it, after the locket.”

“It’s  _ not _ the same!”

“How the hell am I supposed to know that?” she yelled back, their row quickly ratcheting back up.

“By listening to me! By trusting me! Two things you seem entirely incapable of doing. Maybe if I was the bloody Chosen One.”

Hermione grabbed onto the front of Ron’s jumper and, still completely missing whatever point he was trying to make, hollered at him, “What’s Harry got to do with any of this?!”

She stared up at him, finally registering the hurt on his face mingled with the anger, and suddenly she knew the answer, as words he’d said to her weeks ago surfaced in her brain, putting everything into horrible, unbelievable clarity. The last thing he’d said to her from the opposite side of the shield charm before he had walked out of the tent was,  _ You choose him _ .

Ron thought she fancied Harry.

The idea of it was so mind-bogglingly ridiculous (and quite demeaning, if she were honest, as if she only existed in their friendship to be the token girl, though she knew that wasn’t really the case), and yet, it did cast a certain light on some of Ron’s behavior the past few weeks. How uncomfortable he had seemed anytime they talked about Harry. Why he had asked her to forget about the kiss between them after Godric’s Hollow. Why, despite all the signs that seemed so obvious, he hadn’t actually ever told her how he felt.

Before she could even process this revelation, Ron’s hands flew up to her face and he ducked his head to press his lips firmly to hers, before pulling back just as quickly. “That,” he snapped. “That’s what he’s got to do with it.”

He made to move away from her, but she used her grip on his shirt to pull him back in, throwing her arms around his neck to kiss him properly.


	20. Chapter 20

Truthfully, Ron was not altogether certain how they’d gotten here. He had come inside for a cup of tea and accidentally dropped the kettle, waking Hermione in the process. She had incited a row, he had fought back, and now she was kissing him. Again. There were a lot of reasons why he shouldn’t go along with this, not the least of which being that he  _ was _ still quite pissed at her from earlier, but he really,  _ really _ wanted to kiss her, and had done for a long time, and Merlin help him, he was only human.

He wrapped his arms around her, landing low across her back as she was high on her toes to reach him, and kissed her back urgently, nothing like the peck he’d given her a moment ago. Hermione let out a tiny, squeaky little moan as he felt her fingers thread through his hair, attempting to pull him even closer. It felt sort of selfish, pouring years of longing into one kiss, but damn it, if this was the only chance he ever had to do this, he was going to make it count. Besides, Hermione didn’t seem to mind, whatever her reasons; she met and matched every move of his lips against hers.

She was the one who finally wrenched her mouth from his but didn’t pull away, peppering breathless kisses across his stubbly cheek. He nuzzled his face into her hair, which was a billowing mess from her few hours of sleep, and muttered, “What the hell are we doing, Hermione?” Kissing her was absolutely brilliant (more so even than he had imagined, which seemed impossible), but he needed answers.

Hermione settled back onto flat feet and ran her hands over his shoulders down to his chest, her fingers trailing lightly across the front of his jumper. “I’ve wanted to do that for the longest time,” she admitted softly, looking up at him through dark lashes and diminishing the already tenuous grip he had on self-control.

“Why now, then?” It was a bit hypocritical, Ron supposed, to ask her that when he hadn’t done anything to prove his feelings for her, either, but he couldn’t really be bothered about it at the moment.

“Because...” She hesitated and dropped her gaze from his. “Because you think I have feelings for someone else, and I need you to know that that’s not true.” So she was going to dance around it. That was their specialty, wasn’t it, vague words that could be given varying meanings depending on how they were received by the other. It did nothing to quell Ron’s anxiety on the subject, and he loosened his arms from around her to step back. Hermione gave his shirt a quick tug to hold him in place and blurted, “Harry’s like my brother.” She sucked in a sharp breath and continued, her words running together a bit, “I love him like a brother and he feels the same about me. It’s always been like that. I thought you knew.” She finally looked up at him again, uncertainty clouding her features. “That’s what you thought, isn’t it?” she asked timidly. “That I...fancied Harry?”

He couldn’t respond. Hearing her voice the idea, the way she sort of grimaced when she said it, standing there in the circle of his arms looking thoroughly snogged, by him, the concept of her and Harry together sounded, for the first time, utterly insane.

His silence, apparently, was all the confirmation she needed. “Oh, Ron,” she sighed, “how could you even  _think_ that?”

“Because,” he retorted, pulling away. He didn’t want to be patronized about it; until mere minutes ago, it hadn’t been a ridiculous notion, and he knew he hadn’t imagined the reasons why it had formed in the first place. He  _ had_ _,_ it was beginning to seem, misinterpreted them, but not imagined. “The night we left, the way you two were carrying on.” The jealousy bubbled back up inside him as he thought back on the memory, but he fought it back. “You wanted to stay with him.”

“We have a job to do,” she reminded him gently, folding her arms across her chest. “You know that as well as I do. That’s why you’re still here, with me, isn’t it? Staying wasn’t about Harry.” Hermione was looking at him earnestly, and his heart wanted to believe her, but his brain wasn’t having it yet. Now that the facade had cracked, he could feel the years of doubt threatening to pour out, begging for explanation.

“You said he was fanciable.” He practically spat the word back at her.

“Did I? When?” She looked genuinely confused, so Ron reluctantly indulged her with a roll of his eyes.

“Last year. Before Quidditch trials.”

Her brow furrowed as she thought this over. “Quidditch trials...” she mused. After a moment, it was like a light bulb went on over her head. “Oh.  _ Oh_. I said...and you thought...” She huffed suddenly. “I asked you to Professor Slughorn’s Christmas party, not long after that. Didn’t you think that was more of a sign of my feelings than some flippant comment I made about Harry?”

She had her hands on her hips, now, and Ron frowned at the accusatory tone her voice had taken. She hadn’t even addressed his point. “Why say it at all, then?” he pressed irritably.

“I was just trying to be a supportive friend. I could’ve said the same thing about Ginny, it doesn’t mean that I fancy her, either.”

“You could’ve said it about me, too, but you didn’t. And Slughorn’s party? I know you just didn’t want me to feel left out. It’s not exactly broadcasting your feelings to give me a pity invite, Hermione.”

“It  _ wasn’t _ a pity invite, and  _ believe _ me, I would know,” she replied waspishly. He could tell she was gearing back up for another row now, and though part of him wished he had just kept snogging her and left well enough alone, most of him registered that this particular fight was long overdue, and probably a necessary requisite for any kind of romantic involvement between them.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Viktor asked me to the Yule Ball three times before I said yes.”

Ron wasn’t sure how this was relevant, and his temper flared. “I don’t care to hear about you and  _ Viktor_.”

“There would never be anything for you to hear  _ about _ if  _ you _ had only asked me. You want to talk about a pity invite? You barely even registered that I was a girl, much less a girl you might want on your arm at a ball.” Ron opened his mouth to retort, but Hermione barreled on. “I kept putting off answering him because I wanted to go with  _ you_. I asked you to Slughorn’s party because I  _ wanted _ to go with  _ you_.” She let out a laugh that was more of a scoff. “And it  _ seemed _ like you wanted to go, but then next thing I know, you wouldn’t even give me the time of day, and barely came up for air from snogging Lavender Brown even to have meals. If it weren’t for treacle tart, I reckon you might have actually starved to death last year.”

There were, of course, unfortunately, things that he would have to answer to Hermione for as well, and she’d cut right to the heart of the most uncomfortable subject. “Is there a question in there somewhere?” Ron asked flatly, feeling his face start to flush.

Hermione considered him for a moment, still breathing heavily after her emotional rant, though she was calmer when she spoke again. “Yes, I suppose I’d just like to know  _ why_?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you blow me off? Why didn’t you even tell me that you liked Lavender, instead of throwing it in my face like that? I mean, maybe that’s more something you talk about with Harry, girls and snogging and whatnot, but I’m supposed to be your best friend, too.”

“Well, yeah, that’s what I thought, too, and instead I had to hear from  _ Ginny _ that you snogged Krum,” Ron snapped.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “She shouldn’t have told you that!”

“You’re right,  _ you _ should’ve told me!” The hurt washed over him again, as fresh as the day it had happened. “Bad enough I wasn’t some older, famous Quidditch star, couldn’t ever compete with Krum that way, but I at least thought we were friends. Shit, Hermione, you didn’t just  _ not _ tell me, you fucking lied about it. ‘Pen pals’, you said, every bloody time I asked you about him.” Ron brushed past her to the kitchen, intent again on the cup of tea he’d originally come inside for. It was almost three in the morning, and having this argument with Hermione was only making him more exhausted than he had been to begin with.

“At least you weren’t dorm mates with him,” she shot back. “Meanwhile, I had to spend four months listening to Lavender go on and on about your increasingly intimate exploits, and—“

“Wait, wait, wait.” Ron spun around to face her and held his hands up to halt her. She looked annoyed at being interrupted, but Ron felt like he’d been splashed with ice water. “Lavender told you that we slept together?”

“She didn’t  _ tell _ me, of course, but yes, she regaled Parvati with plenty of stories that sounded like they were ripped from trashy muggle romance novels.” Hermione couldn’t quite hold his gaze. “She was very... _complimentary_ , if it’s any consolation.”

All the fight suddenly went out of him. Ron took a deep breath and slowly made his way back over to Hermione, who was now studying the floor of the tent with great interest. He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently, willing her to look at him. She shook her head ever so slightly and kept her eyes down. “Reckon they  _were_ ripped from muggle romances,” he said softly, “because we didn’t...I didn’t...”

He trailed off; his ears were burning with embarrassment, and he couldn’t quite say the words, but Hermione seemed to understand. She finally chanced a look up at him. “No?” she breathed. Ron shook his head emphatically.

“Never. Not even close.”

She studied his face intently. “Please don’t be lying to me about this,” she whispered finally.

“I wouldn’t,” he promised, stung by her words, but unwilling to let it matter at the moment. The entire row, everything they’d just slung at each other, had somehow paled in comparison to this one point. “It never went any further than—“ He groaned, thinking of how mercilessly he had flaunted his relationship. He hadn’t been fair to either of the girls, though he couldn’t imagine Lavender being nearly as slighted as Hermione was, with good reason. “Shit, I’m sorry—further than, you know, what you saw.”

“You never...” Hermione cleared her throat and dropped her gaze again, but her fingers had found their way to his forearms, trailing lightly up from his wrist toward his elbow, and leaving a warmth behind that he felt even through his thick jumper. “You never...thought about it? Sex?” She practically whispered the word, clearly as nervous as he was about the sudden turn the conversation had taken. The tension between them had shifted from anger to something else entirely. Ron thought back on the countless nights he’d spent tucked behind his scarlet bed curtains and a sturdy silencing charm thinking about the girl standing in front of him now and wondered how honest was  _ too _ honest an answer to her question. Sod it; she had asked.

“Sure,” he replied finally, his attempt to sound casual failing miserably. “But, um...not with her.” If he was worried about Hermione misunderstanding what—or  _ who_—he meant, her next shuddering inhale took care of it.

She took a step closer to him, and she was just the perfect height for the gentle kiss he placed automatically on her forehead, amazed at how natural the gesture felt. “It’s quite late,” she murmured. “We should’ve traded watch a while ago now.”

Ron shrugged. “ ‘s okay.”

She tilted her face up to his without moving away, and it would have taken almost nothing to close the distance between their lips. “I feel like we said a lot just now without really saying anything,” she began, more blunt than he could recall either of them ever being on this topic. She was right, though; their entire argument had only been about various incidents of jealousy, and not the actual root of things. “And I feel like we still need to talk about it all. But, I want to be absolutely clear on this one point: I—I fancy you, Ron. I have for a long time.”

He could feel her shaking slightly beneath his hands and knew the strength it took her to say the words out loud, because he was now mustering it himself. “Me too,” he said, then swallowed forcibly to ease his scratchy throat. “It’s always been you, Hermione.”

She smiled widely and closed the space between them, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head against his chest. He breathed deeply, holding her tight and feeling more relaxed than he had in recent memory. The reality of their situation was going to crash back over them soon, and hard, but for the moment, Ron was content to remain in this wonderful little bubble.


	21. Chapter 21

Hermione had finally done it. Told Ron how she felt, and miracle of all miracles, he had admitted that he felt the same. She felt ecstatic. She felt like she could defeat Voldemort singlehandedly. Perhaps he was by now so evil that a very strong patronus would wipe him out, and if that were possible, Hermione definitely felt she could produce one powerful enough to get the job done.

She finally pulled out of the embrace they had been silently wrapped in for a few minutes and said reluctantly, “I suppose I should go on watch.”

Ron nodded. “Right, yeah.” Neither of them moved any further apart, though Hermione wasn’t exactly sure what their next steps should be. It wasn’t as if they could simply make plans for the next Hogsmeade weekend and hold hands walking to class; they still had a war to fight, and unfortunately, a patronus fueled by the memories of a brilliant snog wasn’t  _ actually _ going to end it. Ron looked equally unsure, but finally asked with just a hint of a smile, “Suppose then it’d be alright for me to kiss you goodnight before you go?”

Hermione grinned back. “More than alright.” Ron put a hand on her cheek and leaned down to kiss her gently, pulling away too soon for her liking, but then again, she’d have happily kissed him all night, now that she knew for certain that it was what they both wanted. “Hey,” she said suddenly, grabbing his hand as he stepped away. “I trust you,” she told him sincerely, remembering why they’d been fighting in the first place that night. “With my life. With everything. We’ll have another go with the deluminator in the morning, okay?”

Ron pursed his lips slightly, and she almost regretted bringing it back up, but she wanted to make sure he knew how she felt about him not just romantically, but as her partner in all of this. “I get why you’re concerned,” he replied softly. “The whole thing sounds barmy, I know.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you’re wrong about it.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m right, either,” he said with a shrug.

“We’ll see. I still shouldn’t have said what I said, and I’m sorry.”

Ron nodded, accepting her apology. “Thanks.” He leaned over and gave her another quick peck on the lips, then laughed. “Can’t believe I can actually do that now.” He squeezed her hand once more before letting go. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Hermione echoed, pulling on her coat and heading out into the cold.

Staying awake was easy, but staying  _ focused _ was another matter entirely, both for the same reason; she played the moments with Ron over and over in her head throughout her watch. It was much too early, the first hints of sunrise just barely starting to peek through the trees, when the tent flap rustled behind her and Ron emerged with two mugs of tea and a thick blanket that he draped over them both as he sat, unashamedly close to her. “It’s still early, why aren’t you in bed?” Hermione asked, though she was glad to see him and the tea.

“Didn’t sleep much,” he replied, grinning at her in a way that told her he had spent the remainder of the night thinking of the same things she had. “Thought we could get a jump start on the day. Or snog a bit. Your call.”

Hermione smiled back at him. “Suppose we’ve got time for both,” she replied cheekily.

“Brilliant.” His lips were on hers immediately, and she snuggled closer to him under the blanket as she kissed him back.

After several wonderful moments, Hermione pulled away just enough to mutter, “You know, if we‘re not really keeping watch, we may as well take this inside where it’s warm.”

To her surprise, Ron didn’t immediately agree, and his giddy mood clouded. “This is going to be a distraction, isn’t it? Us?”

Hermione scowled slightly; she had had the same thought before, not only in the weeks they’d been on their own, but over the summer when they had grown gradually closer while always maintaining a safe distance from the line that would change them from  _ friends _ to  _ more _ once crossed. “I think,” she said slowly, “we just need to maintain a balance. Time for the mission and time for...us.” She couldn’t help the smile that crept back onto her face; she liked that they were now an  _ us_.

“Okay. Balance. That sounds reasonable.” Ron paused. “So...what time is it now?”

Hermione knew what she  _ wanted _ the answer to be, but they still had pressing, deluminator-related, matters to attend to. “I think we should discuss a strategy about how to proceed with the deluminator.”

Ron bit his lip, and she could tell he was fighting something snarky to say, still wounded from her comment the day before, and rightfully so. “You have to be open-minded about it,” he said instead, just a bit of an edge evident in his voice.

Hermione nodded. “Yes.” She snuggled back against him and laid her head on his shoulder. Discussing the mission and being close to him didn’t have to be mutually exclusive, she reasoned. Ron apparently agreed, because he draped an arm around her shoulders. “How did you know what the light was for?”

“Just felt it, I guess.”

It was going to be difficult to form a strategy around feelings of Ron’s. But she had promised him an open mind, and not understanding the deluminator was different from understanding Ron. “Why do you suppose it’s not taking us straight to Harry?” she asked. “If that’s what it’s doing.”

“I’ve been wondering that, too.” Ron was staring intently into the trees in front of them, as if he looked hard enough, Harry would just appear. “Maybe the deluminator can’t break enchantments. I mean, we really don’t know how close we are to him. He might be camped ten feet away and not coming out because he’s still hacked off at me for leaving.”

“I don’t think Harry would do that. You’re his best friend, Ron. You’ve always gotten past things before.”

Ron shook his head. “Yeah, but I mean, the Triwizard was kid’s stuff, you know, I was just being a git. This...it’s life or death, Hermione.”

“So was the Tournament, in the end.” Hermione lifted her hand to where Ron’s still rested on her shoulder and linked their fingers together. “Harry will forgive you,” she said confidently, sitting up to look at him. “He knows better than anyone what it’s like to have You-Know-Who whispering in his ear all the time. We tried to go back, and he was gone. You left him a note in Godric’s Hollow, that he must have seen by now. You can only do so much, Ron. You’ve got to forgive yourself.”

He turned his head to her, his blue eyes troubled. “Have  _ you_? Forgiven me?”

Hermione nodded without hesitation, then for further reassurance, leaned over and gave him a quick but firm kiss. “Yes,” she replied seriously. “I have.” Even the night they had left, she could almost watch the horcrux’s influence drain out of him, and he had been himself ever since. The time she had spent with him in the following weeks was all the evidence she needed, really, that his leaving was nothing more than a split-second mistake that they had, unfortunately, been thus far unable to undo.

Ron reached up to rub distractedly at the back of his neck. “Alright, so...assuming Harry’s not avoiding me. The deluminator is only getting us to the general area. How do we find him?”

“Maybe he needs to find  _ us_.”

“How would he? He doesn’t even know to look.”

“I don’t guess it’s practical to go stomping through the woods like a herd of hippogriffs and hope that he hears us.” Hermione frowned, thinking. “What do you suppose is here?” she asked, staring out into the woods. The sun was higher in the sky now, and she knew they would want to get going soon.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the first time it took us to the Burrow.”

“ _Near _ the Burrow,” Ron corrected.

“Still. Seems fairly obvious what Harry would be doing there.”

“Is it?”

Hermione looked curiously at him. “Isn’t it?”

“C’mon. You think Harry would just show up at my house after all this time? More to the point, d’you think Mum would let him  _ leave_?”

“No. But you said there was nothing else nearby.”

“There’s not, really.” Ron was absentmindedly rubbing his thumb against the back of Hermione’s hand, still joined with his, and she was  _ really _ going to need the balance to shift back to  _ us time _ soon, before she went mental. “The Diggorys live nearby, don’t reckon he’d have gone to see Amos, do you?”

“What for?”

“You know he still feels guilty about Cedric.”

“But what purpose would that serve?” They were really reaching for theories at this point, but it felt good to talk through all the possibilities, put an analytical spin on things.

“Don’t know. It’s about the only connection I can think to You-Know-Who, though.”

They sat in silence for several moments, both deep in thought. “Luna,” Hermione said suddenly. “The Lovegoods live in the area, too, don’t they?”

Ron nodded. “Suppose that’s possible. Maybe he just needed a friend. Since, you know...” Ron trailed off awkwardly, but Hermione knew what he meant.  _ Since he doesn’t have us_.

“Perhaps. So then that brings us back to, what’s he doing  _ here_? In the woods?”

“Same thing we’ve been doing for months, I reckon,” Ron chuckled darkly. “Trying not to get killed while we figure out where You-Know-Who hid these bloody horcruxes.”

“Or there’s known magic here,” Hermione said thoughtfully. Ron looked at her, startled, so she continued, “We’re close to where you apparated us, the night we left. But you said yourself you didn’t have a destination in mind. Your magic just sort of...brought us here. Maybe there’s a reason. Otherwise, how would Harry just happen to find the same spot?”

Ron scratched thoughtfully at his chin. He only bothered with a shaving charm every couple of weeks, but Hermione was finding that she didn’t mind at all. Considering that she had successfully hidden her feelings for him for years, she was truly amazed at how difficult it was now to stop herself from snogging him every moment, now that she knew she could. “That’s an interesting thought,” Ron mused, bringing her mentally back to the conversation. “So again, how do we find...whatever it is?”

“I’m not sure. And I suppose the other question is, are we searching the woods or following the deluminator?”

Ron looked conflicted, but finally said, “We’ve got to keep following it, haven’t we? I mean, we can always come  _ back_, now that we know where we’ve been, and search for the horcruxes. Or the sword. Or whatever is actually here. But this is maybe the only way to find Harry. I don’t want to let it go.”

Hermione nodded, unsurprised, and got to her feet. “Let’s pack it up, then.”

Ron smirked up at her. “Y’know, just because we’ve snogged now doesn’t mean you have to agree with whatever I say,” he teased.

“Oh, trust me, I don’t plan on it.” She grinned back at him and reached for his hands to pull him to his feet. “Let’s go.”


	22. Chapter 22

It wasn’t working. Why wasn’t it working?

Ron stared at the blue orb of light floating in front of him and frowned. Hermione’s hand was clasped tightly in his, and they had everything packed up, ready to follow the light again, but even though it had immediately appeared from the deluminator as expected, it had done only that: appear. It was the same thing that had happened the first night, although what it might have done had Hermione not insisted he put it back so quickly, he couldn’t be sure. But Christmas morning, and the day after, the light had floated straight at Ron, into his chest, and whisked them away. Now they were another day gone, and the light was just floating there, taunting him.

“Maybe Harry hasn’t moved,” Hermione suggested, watching the orb curiously. “So it’s not got anywhere to take us.”

“Or maybe it was never taking us to Harry to begin with,” Ron sighed. He held up the deluminator and clicked it, letting the blue light soar out of sight again before dropping Hermione’s hand.

“We can try again in a little while,” Hermione said soothingly, but her tone had the opposite effect on his rankled nerves.

“Look, maybe you were right all along. It’s nothing but a distraction to the actual mission. We’ve still got horcruxes to find and destroy, and You-Know-Who is only getting stronger.”

“Yes, but we know where one of them is: with Harry.”

“I’m telling you we can go back to your plan, you don’t have to placate me,” Ron snapped, then immediately regretted it as he saw Hermione’s face cloud. “Fuck. I’m sorry.” He didn’t think that he and Hermione would ever stop bickering, even now that they were...whatever they were. Harry had teased him before that arguing was what they did instead of outright flirting, and his sister had less tactfully referred to their rows as  _foreplay_ , but now that the two of them were  _something_ more than friends, Ron felt he needed to be more careful with his words. It would really be a shame for her to chuck him approximately six hours into their relationship.

Hermione took his hand again. “We’re just guessing on how to use the deluminator, Ron. It’s going to take some trial and error, I think.”

“Trial and error we don’t really have time for,” he countered ruefully.

“Have you got somewhere else for us to go, then?” Hermione sounded serious, but then she stepped closer to him and added softly, “Because I think I know how we could pass the time.” She raised up on her toes to drop a feather-light kiss on his cheek, and Ron’s blood was suddenly boiling. Merlin, she was going to be the death of him. Although the idea of setting the tent back up and having a nice long snog on the sofa had its merits.

Ron took a deep breath to calm his racing heart. “Focus for a second.”

“I am.”

Sod the couch, if she kept looking at him like that, he was going to have to snog her right there on the forest floor.

“I appreciate the support, Hermione, really, but if it’s a dead end, it’s a dead end.” Ron shrugged as he looked down at the silver object in his hand. Maybe the window of its functionality had closed, or maybe something had changed at their target destination that was preventing the deluminator from taking them there.

“Well, where do you suggest we go, then? Because we’ve sort of run out of useful pit stops other than...” Hermione trailed off, and he watched as her eyes seemed to drift out of focus. “Hogwarts,” she finished softly, but with an unnerving certainty.

“You’re bloody barking,” Ron said immediately. Relationship or no, he still felt he was well within his rights as her best friend to tell her when she was being completely mental. “We may as well  _avada_ each other right here and save the Death Eaters the trouble.” Hermione glared at him. “What do we need at Hogwarts, anyway?” It had crossed his mind that one of the horcruxes could be hidden in the castle, but if Dumbledore hadn’t found it in all these years, it seemed unlikely at best.

“There’s another way to find Harry.” Ron raised an eyebrow at her and waited. “Phineas Nigellus.”

She was even more mental than he thought. “Hermione, that old coot’s other portrait is in the Headmaster’s office.  _Snape’s_ office.”

“I know it would be risky, but—“

“ _ Risky _ ?!”

“But we know for certain that we could get to Harry that way. Or get another message to him, at least.”

Ron ran a hand through his hair and then reached for Hermione’s bag and started pulling the tent back out. Either they were waiting out the deluminator or they were plotting their most insane break-in to date, and either way, Ron didn’t want to do it standing out in the cold.

It took only the few minutes it took them to set the tent back up for Ron to become certain that they were going. He could see the steeliness in Hermione’s eyes that told him her mind was made up, and the fact that she grabbed  _Hogwarts: A History_ before she joined him on the couch confirmed it.

“There’s actually several benefits to going to Hogwarts, now I think about it,” Hermione mused as she shuffled through the stack of parchment on the table. “If only we can figure out a way in.” She finally unearthed a blank sheaf and began to scribble. “Aside from Phineas, Dumbledore’s portrait is there, too.”

“He barely gave us anything to go on when he was alive,” Ron pointed out, rolling his eyes. “What makes you think his portrait will be any better?”

“I don’t, really, but as long as we’re in there, we may as well ask. We should try and get to the potions storeroom, as well. It would be quite useful to be able to make polyjuice again.”

“Well, at least nicking ingredients for polyjuice potion is something we have experience with.” Hermione grinned at him, and he could still see the young girl who had envisioned and executed their hare-brained scheme and brewed a NEWT-level potion at thirteen, though she had become so much more to him in the years since. “What else?”

“The library, of course, if we have time.”

That wasn’t exactly a shocking sentiment from Hermione, but still Ron pointed out teasingly, “You have the entire library in your bag already.”

“I want to see if there’s a book that might have older runes translations. Maybe that symbol in  _Beedle the Bard_ is just one that’s fallen out of use.”

Ron snorted. “Hermione, the course is called  _Ancient_ Runes. They’ve  _all_ fallen out of use.”

She shot him a glare, but the corners of her mouth turned up slightly and gave her away as she went back to her parchment. “If we’re going to break into the castle, I’d like to consider everything we could accomplish by going.”

“So shall we nick down to the Chamber of Secrets for some basilisk fangs too, then?” Hermione’s head shot up, clearly interested. “That was a joke.” He wouldn’t have thought it would be necessary to clarify.

“Ron, that’s  _brilliant_!” Hermione gushed, reaching over to grab his arm. Ron laughed.

“No it’s not. Even if we got as far as the entrance, you’ve got to speak Parseltongue to open it.”

“Ginny got in.”

“While she was  _possessed_ by a Parselmouth.”

Hermione frowned, deep in thought. Ron wondered if it was now possible or acceptable to use snogging her as a diversion tactic. “Well, there’s logistics to be worked out for all of it,” she said finally, her tone dismissive. He found it both infuriating and adorable that she thought of the fact that neither of them spoke Parseltongue as a mere  _logistic_ ; it was so very Hermione-like. “You were with Harry when he opened it, when you went to save Ginny. Do you suppose you could just...I don’t know...fake it? Whatever he said?”

“I don’t think it works like that.” Ron was sure his face would be less incredulous if Hermione suddenly sprouted a second head. Who would have thought, when they set off on this mission, that infiltrating the Ministry would be just a practice round for what was to come? “And say we do get in there—and out—how exactly do you suppose we can safely carry around a bunch of giant poisonous teeth while we keep hunting horcruxes?”

“Like I said, we’ve just got to plan it out.” She was already flipping through the pages of the heavy book. “But if we’re going to do this, now’s probably our best shot, since most everyone will have gone home for the holidays.”

“Okay, so let’s talk logistics,” Ron said, pulling another sheet of parchment toward him and taking the quill from Hermione. “Security is going to be extensive, even at the hols. But there’s a lot of ways in. Suppose we just need to determine the best one. Probably one of the secret passages, don’t you reckon?”

“Assuming Snape doesn’t know about them,” Hermione agreed with a nod. She laid the book on the table in front of them, open to a map of the castle. “This isn’t exactly up to date. I had my newer edition with us before we left, but honestly, it’s a thousand year old castle, so it’ll do.”

Ron wanted to roll his eyes—only Hermione would have  _two_ copies of  _Hogwarts: A History_ — but he was caught off guard by what she had said.  _We_ left. It was no longer that  _he_ had left and dragged her along. Maybe she really had forgiven him. He leaned over and kissed her softly on the lips. She looked surprised at the suddenness of it, but she was smiling at him nonetheless when he pulled back. “What was that for?”

Ron smiled back and shook his head. “Nothing.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him, but his expression must have reassured her, because after a moment she merely went back to looking at the map. Ron started writing a list of all the passages he could remember, as well as any other possible way to enter the castle, impractical as they may have been. After all, sneaking into Borgin and Burkes to use Malfoy’s vanishing cabinets seemed a very certain way to get themselves apprehended, but as far as they knew, it  _was_ still a way into Hogwarts. If nothing else, Ron wanted to take everything into consideration as a possible point of entry for anyone wanting to do them harm.

The path of least resistance on the entrance side was the dilapidatedShrieking Shack, but they knew that Snape was aware of that particular route, and in any case, turning up in the roots of the Whomping Willow still put them a good distance from the castle itself. Inside Hogwarts, the one-eyed witch passage had always been a reliable one, but breaking into Honeydukes when it was likely to be shut down for the holidays presented a challenge on the other end.

“Are we crazy?” Hermione finally asked after they had spent several hours going through the pros and cons of various avenues and still lacked a clear solution.

“Well, yeah,” Ron replied with a smirk. “But, when has that ever not been true?” Hermione sighed and leaned into him, and he wrapped his arms around her automatically, settling both of them further into the couch.

“When has that ever stopped us, I suppose is the better question.” Her fingers were tracing absentminded patterns on his wrist. “When do you want to try the deluminator again?”

Ron had a sudden thought and sat bolt upright, jostling Hermione. “It was Dumbledore’s.”

“You don’t say,” Hermione quipped, looking at Ron with a mixture of amusement and confusion.

He stared back at her, so jolted by his realization that he ignored her sarcasm altogether. “So what if it can apparate us in and out of Hogwarts?”

Hermione’s eyes widened before they drifted down to  _Hogwarts: A History_ , and Ron was sure it was taking all of her self-control not to flip straight to the part she often quoted about anti-apparition charms to look for footnotes that might verify or discredit his suggestion. “Harry went with him, though, when they went looking for the locket. He never mentioned that they had to use the deluminator.”

“Yeah, well, a lot had happened by the time Harry got around to telling us about it.” Death Eaters in the castle. Bill attacked by Greyback. Dumbledore murdered. “Maybe he just forgot.”

“I’ve always assumed that Dumbledore was just dropping the wards when he needed to get in or out,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “But that’s not exactly practical. This would make much more sense.” She pursed her lips. “Of course, it’s only a theory. We should keep the deluminator handy, especially if we need to get out quickly, but we’ll need a real plan as well.”

“And a backup plan. And a backup plan for that.” Ron rubbed a hand tiredly over his face.

“I think what we need now is some lunch.” Hermione reached over and placed a hand on his knee, squeezing it lightly, and Ron smiled gratefully at her. The sudden increase in physical contacts between them was not at all unwelcome, but Ron was a bit surprised by how quickly and easily they had made the shift. Although, it wasn’t anything that he hadn’t already wanted for years, so it was really only a matter of no longer holding back, and he gathered from their talk last night that it was the same for Hermione, though they hadn’t yet fleshed out the details.

“I think that’s the best idea you’ve had so far today.”

“Considering my other idea has the potential to fail spectacularly, I’d say you’re right.” Hermione shot him a wink as she stood up and headed for the kitchen. Teasing though she was, her words rattled him a bit. But there was nothing for it; the world wasn’t safe, and never would be unless they finished the job Dumbledore had left for them. The only way was through.


	23. Chapter 23

It took nearly the entire day to come up with a plan to get into Hogwarts that had even a passing chance of success, but Hermione felt that they had enough contingency plans to ensure that even if they didn’t accomplish anything, they could at least avoid imminent danger. Students would be back at the school in less than a week, so they had decided to take the leap and go to Hogsmeade first thing in the morning. It would have been preferable to have more time to plan, but when had any of their crazy schemes ever gone according to plan, anyway?

They had eaten dinner, tried unsuccessfully to find  _ Potterwatch _ again, and were now sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, Hermione’s legs stretched out across the cushions as she held a book open in her lap, and Ron restlessly turning the deluminator over in his hand. Hermione watched him for a moment and then prodded her toes against his leg. “Hey.” Ron glanced over at her expectantly. “Do you think we’ve put in enough mission time today?” she ventured, earning her a mischievous grin from Ron. He set the deluminator down on the table in front of them and wrapped his long fingers around her ankles, tugging so that she came sliding down the couch toward him with an indignant squeal. “That’s a yes, I suppose?” she teased as he took the book from her hands and set it next to the deluminator.

“Merlin, yes,” he replied, looping one arm around her waist and letting the other drape lazily over her legs, which had landed across his lap. Hermione laced her fingers together behind his neck and leaned into his kiss, his lips moving softly but eagerly against hers.

She had spent a lot of time over the last few years imagining what it would be like if she and Ron actually got together, and though it had not yet even been a full twenty-four hours, she was so far pleased with the reality of it. She had expected the physical aspect to be awkward at first, in equal parts because of their lengthy friendship and her admittedly limited experience, but kissing Ron came as naturally as breathing. The more difficult part would be carrying on their conversation from the night before and clearing the air about some things that they had both been holding onto, which had actually been her intention a few minutes ago before she let herself get carried away snogging him.

“Ron?” she murmured against his lips.

“Hmm?”

“Is there anything you want to talk about?”

He pulled back and gave her a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“You know. About...us? About last night?”

He frowned slightly and then looked away from her, instead watching his thumb move back and forth across the lower part of her thigh, just above her knee. “I want all of the old rubbish between us not to matter,” he said slowly. “But...”

“But it does,” she finished. “It’s okay. It does to me, too.” She understood exactly what he meant; it shouldn’t matter who he had snogged before, now that he was snogging her (although finding out that her old roommate had greatly exaggerated what else had gone on between them had been relief from a weight she hadn’t even realized she was carrying), but all of the little slights over the years had never been given an explanation, and without it, it felt too much like just pretending none of it had happened. “Let’s start with an easy one, then. When did you start to fancy me?”

Ron laughed, relaxing a bit. “If that’s such an easy one, you go first, then.”

Hermione bit her lip, hesitating. “Third year,” she replied shyly. If Ron was surprised by the length of her feelings for him, he didn’t show it. “We went to Hogsmeade, that first weekend, when it was just the two of us, and you made me eat that fudge...”

Ron nodded and smiled at her. “I remember.”

She’d gotten a smear of chocolate on her chin, and he had thought nothing of grabbing a napkin and cleaning it off for her, making her stomach do somersaults in the process. Hermione flushed at the memory. “Come on, then, your turn.”

“Well, I don’t reckon I fully realized it until I got all jealous over you and Krum at the Ball, but, yeah, wouldn’t’ve been long after that for me.” He smirked at her. “That time you slapped Malfoy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but laughed all the same. “I was under an enormous amount of stress, and I really shouldn’t have done it.”

“Nah, he had it coming. And it was amazing.” Ron kissed her quickly, then went on, “About the Ball.”

“Skipping right to the hard parts, are we?” she smirked. “What about it?”

“It had nothing to do with not knowing you were a girl, you know. Honestly, don’t reckon it would have occurred to me to bring a date at all if it weren’t for Harry having to. I thought we would all just sort of...go.” It had never really crossed Hermione’s mind that he would have thought of the Yule Ball that way. In the girls’ dormitory, the talk had been geared toward the romance of it all from the very beginning, but she supposed boys were different. “I know I was a git about it, but if you wanted us to go together, why didn’t you just ask me?”

“If you’ll recall, two years later, I  _ did _ ask you out, and it didn’t turn out so well.” She raised an eyebrow at him, and his cheeks colored. “As for the Yule Ball, we were still so young, and at that age it seemed much more important to be the one who got asked, as the girl. By the time we got to sixth year, I wasn’t really bothered about it.”

“Is that the only reason you went with Krum, then?” Ron asked, and she could hear the bitterness that still crept into his voice, though she could also tell he was making an effort to contain it. “Because he asked?”

“He was nice to me. We got along, had interesting conversations. Even though I really wanted to go with you, I knew I would have a good time with him. So I went.” Ron chewed at his lip, processing this. When he didn’t ask anything further, Hermione reached for his hand to take some of the sting out of what she had to ask next. “So what  _ did _ happen with Professor Slughorn’s party?”

Ron took a deep breath and squeezed her hand a little tighter. “Can we have, like...immunity or something?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I want to be honest with you, but I also don’t want what I’m about to say to fuck things up between us.”

His response made Hermione a bit nervous about what was coming next. But she was also sure that, on the subject of said party, Ron would not take the news of her kissing Cormac well, unwanted though his advances had been, so she thought that perhaps immunity, as he put it, would not be a terrible thing. And she desperately needed to know what had happened; this incident, more so than any other, had derailed the direction she thought they were heading. She nodded her agreement. “Okay. What?”

“It was right after Katie Bell had got attacked, and we had a really rough Quidditch practice, so I was already in a right foul mood. Harry and I were walking back up to the common room when we ran into Dean and Ginny having a snog.” He looked down at his hand, fingers once again idly tracing patterns on her jeans. “I said some things to Ginny I shouldn’t’ve said, and we got into a row about it. She said I wouldn’t be bothered about other people snogging if I’d done it myself, like Harry had with Cho and...and you with Krum.”

“And so you just went and got yourself some snogging done with the first girl you spotted,” Hermione said stiffly, holding onto her promise of immunity with great difficulty. Ginny had sort of told her about this incident, but only in the context of what a git Ron was being about her having a boyfriend and how she wasn’t a little kid anymore. She would have to have words with her second-favorite Weasley when they saw each other again.

“I was jealous. And hurt.” Ron met her gaze imploringly. “I thought, back then, that you probably  _ had _ snogged him, but then you never mentioned it, so I thought you must not’ve, because I thought you would’ve told me. So to hear it from Ginny...then that weekend, the whole thing with Harry pretending about the liquid luck...” Ron shook his head, then said fiercely, “I know what I did after was stupid and immature, but to hear that from the girl I lo—fancied,  _ hurt_.”

Hermione almost missed his slip of the tongue. Almost. “You should’ve asked me about Viktor, instead of taking it from Ginny,” she replied matter-of-factly. “She was just winding you up.”

“So you  _ didn’t _ kiss Krum?” Ron asked skeptically.

“I did, but I wouldn’t call it a snog. He kissed me goodnight. Once. Right before they left to return to Bulgaria. What you and I were just doing was much more.. _involved _ than how I’ve kissed anyone before.”

Ron’s brow furrowed slightly. “Anyone? Who else have you kissed besides Krum?” Hermione grimaced; she’d meant to break that news to him more delicately. Before she could respond, though, he rolled his eyes and answered his own question. “McLaggen. Right?”

“It was truly awful,” she replied honestly, “but yes, he kissed me at Slughorn’s party.” Ron’s fingers flexed against her leg. “I only went with him to get back at you.”

“Well, that was certainly mission accomplished.” Ron sighed. “Anyone else?”

Hermione shook her head. “You?”

“No.”

They sat in awkward silence for a moment, though at least neither of them had gotten up and stormed off, which seemed an improvement over prior rows. Hermione reached for Ron’s hand again and slid her fingers between his. “I suppose I...I understand,” she said finally. Cormac, after all, had been more or less her version of the same thing Ron had done by kissing Lavender. “But why did you carry on so long with her? I know you had wanted to ditch her for a while...and you obviously weren’t getting the benefits from that relationship that I thought you were,” she added teasingly, smiling as Ron flushed pink.

“You and I were going tit for tat at that point, really. Biggest fight we’d ever had, and I wasn’t interested in losing.” He shrugged. “It was nice to be wanted and all, but, no, I was never into Lavender like I should’ve been to stay together that long.”

“You know that makes you—“

“An absolute arse?” Ron supplied. She wouldn’t have said it quite so harshly, but the sentiment was essentially the same. “Yeah, I do. I apologized to Lavender, later.”

Hermione looked at him in surprise. “You did?”

Ron nodded. “Before term ended. Everything was so serious after Dumbledore died, and I knew we weren’t going back. It was the least I owed her.”

Rather than jealousy, Hermione felt a surge of affection for Ron. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Yeah, well, she was a bit of a touchy subject, wasn’t she? You and I were finally speaking again, and I didn’t want to bungle it all up.”

Hermione leaned forward and rested her head against Ron’s shoulder. He turned slightly to press a kiss to her forehead, and they sat together quietly for a moment before Hermione ventured, “Are you scared?”

“Bloody terrified,” Ron answered immediately. His arm snaked around her back again, tugging her closer. “I’ve wanted this— _ this _ , with you—“ He squeezed her hand to clarify. “—for so long, and I don’t want to wreck it.”

Hermione’s heart swelled at his words. “I feel the same way about you, but I...actually meant about busting into Hogwarts tomorrow?” She raised her head tentatively to look at him. His eyes had gone very round, and his ears were turning pink.

“Merlin, I’m a prat,” Ron groaned. He rolled his head around to look at her, and she was relieved to see that he was smiling. “You sure this is what you want?”

Hermione nodded and smiled back. “Very.”


	24. Chapter 24

The sky was just transitioning to the gloomy grey light of pre-dawn when Ron stood and stretched, and then went into the tent to rouse Hermione. They would be attempting to infiltrate Hogwarts in just a couple of hours, and despite Ron’s misinterpreted answer to Hermione’s question the night before, he was scared. Scared they would be caught, or worse, separated, and he vowed to himself that no matter what else might happen, Hermione would be safe. If the idea of losing her before had been unfathomably horrible, the possibility now was...well, it wasn’t a possibility. He would make sure of that.

Thanks to Hermione’s combination of extension and shrinking charms, she now had everything they were carrying stuffed into her sock, other than their wands and the deluminator. It was nothing more than a hope and a prayer that the deluminator would be able to get them out of the castle in a pinch, but Ron felt better having it accessible, just in case.

Hermione wordlessly reached for Ron’s hand, and he gave it a quick squeeze before disapparating them. They landed, as discussed, in a storage room just off the train platform at Hogsmeade Station. It was dark and dank but, as anticipated, empty. Hermione immediately pressed her ear to the door, listening for any sign that the outside wasn’t as deserted as their hiding spot, and after several minutes had passed, she eased the door open just a sliver. Ron could see scarlet through the gap she had created; neither of them had been sure where the Hogwarts Express remained between trips, but it had obviously returned to the village after taking the students back to London. “Doesn’t look like anyone is out there,” she whispered, closing the door again and turning to face him. “How did you know this room was here, anyway?”

Ron frowned, remembering the chilly morning that he’d discovered it, and whispered back, “I, er...was hiding from Lavender while we were waiting for the train home for Christmas last year.” Hermione snorted a laugh and then clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes going wide above it. “Have a go at me later, would you? We’ve got to get going.”

“Right, sorry.” Hermione took a deep breath and then reached behind herself for the door handle. “Ready?” Ron wasn’t, really, but what choice did they have? He nodded quickly and followed Hermione out the door.

It was snowing heavily, adding to a thick layer already on the ground, but Ron could tell that the wintry weather wasn’t the only cause of the chill in the air. “Dementors,” he said to Hermione under his breath as they walked. He couldn’t see any, but they were definitely nearby.

“Not surprised,” she replied with a nod. “Quickly, then.”

The walk from the train station to the Shrieking Shack only took them a few minutes, but being exposed, this close to a village, made it feel much longer. And not just any village; one they had visited regularly for years, where they were known and might be recognized even with Hermione’s appearance-altering transfigurations in effect. But they didn’t encounter anyone along the way, and Ron heard Hermione give a sigh of relief as they entered the rundown old shack. “ _ Homenum revelio _ ,” she whispered, casting the spell before they moved any further inside. Her words were met with absolute silence, so Ron grabbed her hand and led her through to the living room, where the trap door to the secret passage was located.

The last time they had been in here, Ron had been dragged the full length of the passageway by Sirius in his animagus form, so he was surprised by how long it actually took to walk it. Finally, the ground began to slope upward, and they stopped as soon as they were close enough to see out the entrance without exposing themselves. The perimeter of the grounds was ringed with dementors, again unsurprisingly, but otherwise the looming castle looked much the same as they had left it. “God,” Hermione sighed, putting a hand to her chest. “Feels weird, doesn’t it?”

“Being here, or not being here?” Ron knew that sounded like absolute gibberish, but he could tell that Hermione understood.

“Both.” She swiped at the corner of her eye and then stood up straighter, steeling herself. “It’s not home anymore. We do what we have to do and get out. Agreed?” Ron nodded; they had talked about this already, but now that they were actually there, Hermione’s reminder felt anything but repetitive.

They stayed put for a while, watching, but the dementors seemed to be the only added security. The grounds were completely deserted, and Ron hoped they would have the same luck once they got inside. They retreated back the way they had come and out through the Shrieking Shack, heading for High Street.

There were few people on the street at the early hour, and they all kept their heads down, thankfully not sparing a single glance at Ron and Hermione. It was a far cry from the lively hub of activity it had always been during their school visits.

They didn’t have to stall long before they were alone in the street, and Hermione wordlessly let them into Honeydukes, both of them slipping inside unnoticed and hurrying back to the cellar. Ron helped Hermione climb down the narrow stairs before following. The cellar storage was packed floor to ceiling with pink and mint green boxes of sweets, and there was some kind of cooling charm set on the room. Ron shivered as they peeked around the stacks of boxes until he finally spotted the narrow passageway. “Over here,” he called softly to Hermione. They crept quickly up the hallway until they came to the end and a rickety ladder that Ron knew would dump them out on the castle’s third floor behind the one-eyed witch statue. He looked up and took a deep breath. “Ready?”

Hermione leaned up to give him a quick kiss. “Let’s do this.”

Ron went first, opening the hump in the witch’s back just enough to peer out. He didn’t see or hear anyone, but between the castle ghosts, Mrs. Norris, and Filch, all of whom had the uncanny ability to appear from nowhere, their solitude in the corridor could not be counted on to last. “C’mon. Reckon it’s now or never.”

Despite the top priority of this break-in being contact with Harry through Phineas Nigellus’s portrait, they had agreed to start with an attempted raid on the first-floor potions storeroom, in the hopes of confirming Snape’s location—in the Great Hall having breakfast, ideally—before trying to get into the Headmaster’s office. But they had barely made it halfway down the hall when Ron heard footsteps, and yanked Hermione into the nearby trophy room.

“I fail to see, Severus, how a break-in at Honeydukes bears any relevance to the security of the castle.” Professor McGonagall’s voice was muffled through the trophy room door, but Ron heard her clearly and his stomach dropped. A break-in at Honeydukes. Someone already knew they were here. He swore under his breath.

“As you continue to struggle with the concept,  _Minerva_ ,” Snape drawled back, his voice closer than hers had been, “may I remind you that I am Headmaster of this school and thus tasked with the security of this castle and its inhabitants.”

“And as I have been forthcoming with reminding  _you_ , Severus, I shall be glad to refer to you by your appointed title when you have proven yourself worthy of the respect that accompanies the position.” Ron had a sudden desire to burst into the hallway and salute his former Head of House; Hermione, too, was biting her lip to hold back a grin. “Now, pray tell what we are doing in this clearly deserted corridor, or shall I return to my study?”

“Are you so ignorant to the antics of your trouble-making students, or have you merely turned a blind eye to them all these years?”

There was the sound of an adjacent door opening and closing again. Hermione nodded toward the heavy armoire in the corner of the room, and they secured themselves inside, pressed entirely flush together in the cramped space, just as the trophy room door clicked open.

“To my knowledge, the only student aware of this passage is none other than Harry Potter himself,” Snape was saying as they entered.

“Certainly,” Professor McGonagall returned, and Ron was sure he’d never heard her sound quite so sarcastic before. “The boy has a 10,000 galleon price on his head, but he’s been struck with remorse over missing Charms homework.” There was a pause during which the two professors were most likely glaring at each other. “Do tell him for me, if you see him, that I have Transfiguration work for him to catch up on as well.” Professor McGonagall chuckled to herself, and then there was the quiet whoosh of Snape’s robes as he swept out of the room, closing the door roughly behind him.

Ron held his breath for several minutes more to be sure they were alone again. He could feel Hermione’s heart hammering against his chest. He hadn’t expected this trip to go flawlessly, but he also hadn’t expected they would be nearly caught less than five minutes after setting foot inside the castle. Hermione’s thoughts seemed to be in line with his. “Wards,” she whispered, almost silently. “They must have some sort of alert at the sweet shop.”

“Snape must have known to be watching the passages, though. Otherwise why would anyone have told him the wards at Honeydukes were triggered?” Ron took as deep a breath as he dared. “What do we do?”

“We’ve got to carry on. Now that there’s been a security breach, Snape will tighten everything up, and it’ll be impossible to get in again.”

“Assuming we can get  _out_.” He patted his pocket for the deluminator, hoping now more than ever that his theory had merit. “They’ll be watching every way in and out, Hermione, already.”

“All the more reason to do what we need to do. If Snape wants to close all our exit routes, he’ll be doing it already. He won’t wait.” Ron’s eyes had adjusted enough to the pitch black inside the armoire that he could see Hermione’s frightened face. “We’ll be just as trapped in an hour or two as we are now. Let’s make it count.”

Ron nodded his agreement, and Hermione slid open the latch on the heavy doors, pushing one with a barely audible creak. The third floor corridor was once again empty, and they hurried over to the stairwell that would take them directly to the first floor, only a short distance from the potions storeroom. They had to wait for a couple of very young-looking Hufflepuffs to pass by before they slipped out into the corridor and to the storeroom. Ron silently unlocked the door, and Hermione rolled her eyes as they locked themselves inside. “As protective as he is of his stores, you’d think Snape would set more than a standard locking charm on this door,” she said quietly as she lit her wand and dug her bag out of her sock.

They had gone over the list repeatedly of which ingredients to take, and they found several of them in short order but got stalled on others. Ron could hear scattered noises from the hall as they searched and knew that the later it got, the harder it would be to navigate the castle undetected. “How much time do you want to waste on lacewing flies?” Ron asked, scanning the highest shelves again after an unproductive first look.

“If we don’t get all of the ingredients we may as well not take any of them,” Hermione replied from where she was crouched near the floor. “Is that the last thing we need for the polyjuice?”

“Yes, but we—aha!” Ron unearthed a nearly empty bottle of dried lacewing flies from behind another ingredient. “Is this enough? Looks like that’s all that’s in here.”

Hermione straightened and took the bottle from him, stowing it away. “It’s enough to make one batch. Better than nothing. Did you find any dittany?” Ron shook his head. “Not strictly necessary, but it would have been nice. We should move on, I suppose.”

“I think we’ve got to skip the Chamber of Secrets,” Ron said quietly as the voice of Mr. Filch drifted in from the hallway, complaining about some ruckus Peeves had caused on the fourth floor. Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. “If we go down there, then we’re really,  _really_ trapped.”

“What about the basilisk fangs?”

“Look, we don’t even know if we can get in. I’m more concerned about getting the two of us  _out_ in one piece, and we still haven’t talked to the portrait.” Hermione looked somewhat mutinous, and Ron put his hands on her shoulders. “If we have time, we can circle back. But we’ve got to get to the portrait. Right? We were agreed.”

Hermione bit her lip, and he could tell she was conflicted. “This is the only way we know to get rid of them. What if it  _is_ the only way?”

“The sword—“

“Is  _missing_ , Ron.”

“So what about Harry?” He stared down at her, trying to understand.

“We’ve got to create a diversion to ensure Snape is out of his office, anyway. We can ask Myrtle to flood the pipes or something.”

“Right, because she’s always willing to help.” Ron rolled his eyes, and Hermione frowned up at him.

“Have you got a better idea, then?” she challenged.

“Yeah, we go talk to Phineas and get the bloody hell out of here.”

She sighed. “Ten minutes. If we can’t get into the chamber in ten minutes, we bail and head for the portrait.”

“Five minutes,” Ron countered. He was fairly certain he wouldn’t need more time than that to  _not_ speak Parseltongue.

“Seven.”

“Done.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned up for a kiss. “Good to know we can compromise.”

“Not that I haven’t fantasized about snogging you in every bloody broom cupboard in the castle, but we  _are_ on a bit of a time crunch here.”

“Right.” Hermione let him go and turned for the door. She hesitated with her hand on the knob. “ _Every_ broom cupboard?”

“ _ Hermione _ .”

She laughed softly and cracked the door. Filch had gone, and they seemed to have a window of opportunity. They hurried down the hall and up another hidden stairwell to the second floor, slipping inside Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. The loo was quiet; its resident ghost was apparently elsewhere. Ron led Hermione over to the bank of sinks in the center. “It’s this one,” he told her, pointing to the faucet with the engraved snake.

“Can’t believe I was petrified through this the last time,” she huffed irritably. “Okay, give it your best shot.”

Ron tried to remember what Harry had said to open the sink all those years ago, but the few times he had heard him speak Parseltongue, it had all sounded more or less the same. He gave his best imitation of the strangled hissing noise, to no avail. It hadn’t been very long, what Harry had said, so he tried again, shortening the sound. Hermione watched him with bated breath, not saying a word. On his third go, to his utter astonishment, the sink shifted with a horrible scraping noise and slid aside to reveal the damp tunnel. Hermionethrew her arms around him. “You did it, I knew you could!”

Their celebration was cut short, however, by the faint creak of the bathroom door opening. “Shit,” Ron breathed. Whoever had entered was moving slowly, being careful not to make any noise. Ron put a finger to his lips and pulled Hermione into the closest stall, both of them scrambling onto the toilet so that their feet wouldn’t be seen beneath the door. Ron held tight to Hermione, frantically thinking of a way to explain why they were at Hogwarts and, above all, why they had  _opened the fucking Chamber of Secrets_.

The footsteps were almost silent as they moved closer. This was it. They were going to be caught. Hermione was shaking in his arms, and Ron found himself hoping to Merlin that their intruder would just leave.

“Ron? Hermione? I know you’re in here, I can see you on the map.”

Hermione gasped, no longer caring to be quiet, and scrambled out of the stall, Ron right behind her. It was impossible.  _Impossible_. And yet, standing there in front of them, Invisibility Cloak in one hand and Marauder’s Map in the other, was Harry


	25. Chapter 25

It was impossible.  _ Impossible_. So much so, in fact, that Hermione just stopped herself before she could run to embrace their best friend, and turned her wand on him instead. He had the Marauder’s Map, and the Invisibility Cloak, so it most likely was in fact Harry...but there was also the very dreadful possibility that something had happened to the real Harry and this was a Polyjuiced imposter who had stolen his most notable belongings to appear convincing.

Harry took a step back and pulled his wand as well, but when Hermione caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and Ron behind her, she understood why: she had forgotten that they didn’t look like themselves. Harry, on the other hand, had done nothing to alter his appearance, which was either something very reckless that she would scold him about later, or a calculated move by whoever was impersonating him so that his identity would not be in question.

Harry spoke first, his voice quiet and shaky. “My name is Harry James Potter. I met you both six years ago on the Hogwarts Express. You—“ he looked at Ron “—gave me a chocolate frog card of Albus Dumbledore, and you—“ he looked back at Hermione “—were looking for a toad called Trevor.” Hermione let out a breath and took one step toward Harry, but Ron grabbed at her arm as Harry raised his wand higher, flicking it between the two of them. “Your turn,” he said pointedly, eyebrows raised.

“My name is Hermione Jean Granger. I used a Ministry-issued time turner back in third year to take extra classes, and you and I used it to save your godfather and a hippogriff named Buckbeak.”

“Ronald Bilius Weasley. I—“

Harry cut Ron off with a hesitant laugh. “Good enough, I don’t reckon there’s any interrogator who could get your middle name out of you.”

The three of them stared at each other, unsure what to say now that they actually had the chance. Hermione could only take so much silence. “Harry, you really ought to change your looks,” she told him, opting for her no-nonsense tone out of sheer familiarity.

“Not really the time or place for glamour charms, is it?” Harry joked back, but his voice came out tight and there was almost no trace of humor on his face.

“You know what she means,” Ron put in, gesturing to himself and Hermione, “your hair color or something, at least.”

“Think I’ve done alright taking care of myself, actually.” Harry’s expression hardened further, and in the mirror, Hermione saw Ron take a tiny step back, his gaze now fixed to the floor. Harry gave a frustrated sigh and adjusted his glasses. “Look, we haven’t got a lot of time. But...” He glanced over at the gaping hole in the floor. “What in the bloody hell are you going into the Chamber of Secrets for?”

“Basilisk fangs. Something to destroy horcruxes,” Ron said with a nonchalant shrug. “What the hell are  _ you _ doing here?”

“Well, speaking of horcruxes—there’s one in the castle,” Harry replied, his tone equally casual despite the subject matter.

“ _ What _ ?” Ron and Hermione chorused.

“How do you know?” Hermione asked. “Which one is it?”

“Ravenclaw’s. And er...it’s a long story. But it’s up in the Room of Requirement.”

Ron balked at him, forgetting for the moment to be chagrined. “The Room of Requirement?” he repeated incredulously. “We spent half of fifth year up there.”

“I know. I don’t have time to explain. You two, um...” Harry paused, and Hermione felt a pang of doubt. Harry had seen them on the Map and sought them out, but at this point it seemed just as likely that he had done so merely to tell them to sod off. “You can come if you want, or, I dunno, just carry on, I guess.”

“No,” Ron said firmly. “We’re not splitting up.” Hermione nodded her agreement, and that seemed to be enough for Harry, at least for the time being. He held up the Invisibility Cloak and nodded for them to join him beneath it. Ron moved immediately, but Hermione hesitated.

“Have you got a way to get rid of them now?” she asked, looking over at the Chamber’s entrance. Part of her figured that it had to be more important to get the horcruxes themselves, but the other part wasn’t sure what the point would be if they couldn’t be destroyed. Besides, selfishly, she didn’t want to go on being the only one who hadn’t seen the inside of the Chamber of Secrets.

“No, not yet, but...he may know what we’re doing, so, kinda need to get them all before he moves them.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Harry, hoping he wasn’t saying what she thought he was. “What do you  _ mean_, he may know?”

Ron seemed to have caught on as well, because he stepped away from Harry as if burned. “You aren’t letting him in your head?”

Harry looked a bit sheepish, which Hermione felt all but confirmed it, but he only repeated, “We don’t have time for this. Snape knows there’s been a break-in, through Honeydukes. Your doing, I suppose?”

“Well, yeah. How’d  _ you _ get in?” Ron asked. Harry held up the cloak in response.

“Has its uses.” He turned and shot a hissing sound over to the sinks, which slid back into place with the same grating sound. “C’mon.”

They had to move slowly through the castle, careful not to make any noise or accidentally expose their feet—the three of them didn’t quite fit under the cloak like they had when they were young—but being invisible had eliminated a hurdle. They obviously couldn’t talk as they went, but Hermione had so many questions that she felt fit to burst. The most pressing, though, was regarding the Room of Requirement. Harry seemed certain the Ravenclaw horcrux—and what exactly  was it?—was in there, but the room could take an infinite number of forms. How would they ever know which one to ask the room to become?

They finally came to the spot on the seventh floor where the tapestry of dancing trolls marked the room’s location. Ignoring Hermione’s vague noise of protest, Harry ducked out from beneath the cloak to make the necessary three passes in front of the blank wall, which revealed a door when he stopped. The three of them slipped inside quickly, but as soon as they entered, Hermione stopped dead in her tracks.

She had never seen the room like this. It seemed to be easily the size of the library, maybe larger, and walkways zigzagged every which way throughout the room, but instead of staggering shelves full of books, the aisles separated piles of what appeared to be nothing but junk: broken furniture, mangled broomsticks, rusted trunks.

“What is this place?” Ron asked, voicing Hermione’s curiosity. “And how the hell are we supposed to find a bloody horcrux in this mess?”

“We don’t have to find it,” Harry replied, setting off confidently down an aisle to the left, and leaving Ron and Hermione to follow. “I know where it is.”

They were deep into the maze of rubbish when Harry stopped abruptly and reached into the interior pocket of his coat, pulling from within Hermione’s trusted beaded bag. She exchanged a glance with Ron as Harry reached out and grasped a small, shiny tiara from atop a marble bust wearing a wig. It snagged on a bit of hair from the wig, and Harry extracted it carefully. “It’s the lost diadem of Ravenclaw.”

“What in the bloody hell is a diadem?” Ron asked as Harry placed it into the beaded bag and tucked it away again.

“It’s a type of crown. Ravenclaw’s was rumored to impart wisdom to the wearer, but it’s been missing for centuries,” Hermione explained. “Harry, are you sure?” He shot her a look that left no room for doubt, and she shuddered to think of the methods that had given him his certainty. If Voldemort was in his head, that didn’t say much for their safety, either.

“How’d you know it was here?” In answer to Ron’s question, Harry bent down and opened the small cabinet on which the bust rested and extracted from within his tattered sixth-year potions book. Hermione gawked at him.

“I found this version of the room last year when I had to hide the Prince’s book.” To Hermione’s relief, he placed the book backin its hiding spot. “I wanted to mark where I left it, so I could come back to it later, so I grabbed this wig and the diadem and put it on the statue. Had no idea what it really was, of course.”

“Harry, you were supposed to get rid of that book,” Hermione scolded. “Not hide it for later.”

“Bloody good thing he didn’t, though,” Ron interjected, earning him a hard glare from Hermione. Harry raised an eyebrow and glanced between the two of them, but didn’t comment.

“So, er, I’ve got what I came here for,” Harry said. “You two still intent on the basilisk fangs?”

“You tell us, mate,” Ron replied, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes. “Have you got rid of...you know?”

Harry tugged at the gold chain around his neck, pulling it out above his collar just enough for them to see. “Nope.”

“Then I say we go.” Hermione put her hands on her hips and looked at the two boys, hoping her assertiveness would diffuse some of the tension that she could see building. They needed to get rid of the horcruxes, and now that they no longer needed to sneak into Snape’s office to talk to Phineas, they had more time to get back to the Chamber.

“The three of you are not going anywhere.” Snape’s familiar sneering tone startled them all, and Hermione whirled around, looking for the headmaster, finally spotting him on the opposite side of a rubbish pile, his beady black eyes glaring at them from between two broken bookcases.

“Run!” Harry commanded, throwing the cloak haphazardly over all of them. Hermione was sure their feet were exposed as the cloak flapped around them, but it was better than nothing as they could hear Snape in pursuit. She struggled to keep up with the boys’ longer strides as they ran in what she hoped was the direction of the entrance to the room, even with Ron holding tight to her hand.

They finally rounded a corner and skidded to a stop. Ron crouched so that the cloak dragged the floor, hiding them completely. Hermione could still hear Snape moving around in the room, but they seemed to have been able to put some distance between themselves and him. “How are we going to get out of here?” Harry whispered, and Hermione felt a sense of relief that, at least faced with the immediate danger, there was no question that they were leaving together. What would happen once they were safely out of the castle remained to be seen, but she would worry about that later.

“Ron, should we try—“ But she cut herself off as Ron was already reaching into his pocket for the deluminator. Harry’s eyebrows shot up beneath his messy black fringe.

“The deluminator? What—“ Harry stopped abruptly as Snape appeared at the end of the aisle and, though unable to see them, seemed to be looking right at them as he rolled his left sleeve, revealing his Dark Mark. He was going to call for Voldemort, Hermione thought in a panic. Voldemort at Hogwarts. And they were trapped.

“Fuck, I hope this works,” Ron muttered as he clicked the deluminator. The blue light appeared right in the middle of the three of them, and as it had done before, headed straight for Ron. He grabbed Hermione’s hand in one of his and extended the other toward a still bewildered Harry. “Trust me?”

It felt like a very long moment where everything was in question, and just when Hermione thought they were about to lose Harry again, he took Ron’s outstretched hand, the light hit Ron’s chest, and Hermione felt the pull behind her navel once more.


	26. Chapter 26

Ron took a moment to get his bearings. He still had hold of Hermione’s hand, though she dropped it quickly to move around them and start putting up protective charms, and despite having lost his grip on Harry on the landing, his best mate was sprawled on the ground nearby, looking shaken by the unexpected travel but otherwise unscathed. They had landed by the coast this time, and the lack of trees made Ron feel oddly exposed after all the time they had spent in various forests up and down the country.

The relief he felt was overwhelming: relief that they’d gotten away from Snape, relief that the deluminator had worked...but the relief that they had found Harry came with a price; Ron was only now realizing exactly how sure he’d been that he was never going to see him again, because he had absolutely no idea what to say to him, now that the moment was here. He knew what he  _ needed _ to say, in a logical sense. There were apologies and explanations that Harry was more than owed from him after the weeks he had spent on his own, but suddenly, Ron didn’t have the words.

Hermione was looking at him expectantly, and he realized she had been speaking to him. He hadn’t even heard her. “Harry was just asking about the deluminator,” she prompted, but her tone was soft, not annoyed as she might have normally been to find Ron’s mind elsewhere.

“Oh. Yeah.” Ron pulled it back out from his pocket and tossed it to Harry without thinking. “Still not really sure how it works, to be honest. But sometimes it, well...does that.”

“It’s a portkey?” Harry asked, curiously examining the object in his hand.

“Sort of. Sometimes.” Ron glanced at Hermione, who gave him a pointed look and nodded at a distracted Harry. Ron shook his head. He couldn’t tell Harry yet how they had heard his voice through the deluminator.

Clearly anxious to fill the awkward silence that had fallen, Hermione pulled her bag out from her sock and announced, “I’ll just set up the tent, then, shall I?”

Harry finally looked up then. “You’ve got another tent in that bag?” he asked Hermione. “Can I see?” She nodded, and between the three of them, they had it set up in short order.

“It’s not as big as Perkins’,” Hermione said as they led Harry inside. “And we hardly have anything functional, so far as cooking and all.”

Harry gazed around, looking impressed. “Still better than I could’ve done.”

“Have you—“ Hermione’s lips twitched, and though she seemed to be struggling with whatever she wanted to ask, Ron was grateful that she was taking the lead on the conversation. “Have you still got the old tent, then?”

“Er, yeah, everything is still in your bag.” Harry pulled the beaded bag out from his pocket and set it on the sofa table with a thud before he addressed Ron. “I saw your message,” he said softly. “In Godric’s Hollow.”

Ron looked up and met Harry’s eyes. He looked hurt, more than anything else, but there was also an openness there that was so characteristically Harry. “I’m so sorry, mate,” Ron said, his voice broken. That was what it really came down to, the most important thing he needed to say.

Harry nodded once. “I know you are.” Ron saw Hermione surreptitiously wipe at her eyes as she turned and moved over to their kitchen area to fiddle with the tea kettle. Harry sat down in the chair closest to where he stood, and Ron joined him, taking a seat on the couch. “So,” Harry ventured in a low voice, “you two finally got things sorted then, yeah?”

Ron raised an eyebrow, surprised by the abrupt subject change, and by the fact that they were apparently that obvious. It wasn’t as if he had grabbed her for a snog in the Room of Requirement, after all. “Er, yeah, we have, kind of. How could you tell?”

Harry smirked. “Your tent only has one bed,” he pointed out. Ron felt his face flush.

“We’re not  _ that _ sorted,” he replied with a low chuckle. “Opposite watches, you know, never sleeping at the same time.”

“Hmm.” Harry’s smirk widened, but any additional commentary he may have had on the subject was silenced by Hermione’s announcement of tea as she followed the three mugs she was levitating over to the couch and sat down beside Ron. “Well.” Harry sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Where should we start?”

“Ron’s been great,” Hermione said immediately. “We’ve really been so busy since that night, Harry, we’ve—“ Ron cut her off gently with a hand to her knee.

“I never should’ve left,” Ron began softly, looking at Harry. “That locket fucked with my head. As soon as I had it off, I realized what a mistake I’d made. A mistake that Hermione had no part in. So, don’t be mad at her, please.” Hermione put her hand on top of his. “We went right back. We couldn’t have been away more than an hour, and you were gone. Or, we couldn’t find you, anyway.”

“I was gone.” Harry cleared his throat and looked away awkwardly. “I didn’t know where you’d gone, or if your leaving might have done something to the wards, and on top of that I was...well, pissed.” Ron nodded, acknowledging that. “Reckoned if you didn’t want to be there then I didn’t want you there anyway, and I packed everything and disapparated.”

Harry’s words hung between them, and Ron wondered how true they still were, a month later. The fact that he was even here with them now, though, talking it out, was a testament to Harry’s capacity for forgiveness; if the roles had been reversed, Ron wasn’t sure he would have been quite so magnanimous.

“When did you go to Godric’s Hollow?” Hermione asked him.

“Wasn’t long after you left. A week, maybe.” Harry paused. “You must have gone there straightaway, then, to have left that note before I got there?”

“Nearly. We stayed at Hermione’s house for a night—“

“Your  _ house_?” Harry interrupted, looking incredulously at Hermione. “But, what if the Death Eaters had been there? What about your parents?”

“My charms were intact. The house was fine. And we really didn’t have anywhere else to go after...” Hermione trailed off and glanced at Ron, and he nodded for her to go on. Harry deserved the whole story, and Ron felt he deserved whatever reactions that earned him, and besides, there was no sense mincing words about it now. “We both were determined to stay on the mission, just the two of us, but we’d left everything behind. My parents had a tent—“ she gestured around them “—which we obviously modified, and we packed up some food, and books, and clothes for me, and then we set off again.”

“To Godric’s Hollow.” Ron and Hermione both nodded. “Why?”

“We thought the sword might be hidden there,” Ron replied.

“Considering I found you breaking into the Chamber of Secrets for basilisk fangs, I’m assuming it wasn’t?”

“No such luck. But we did find...” Ron looked at Hermione, who took the hint and scrambled up to pull the golden lion out from the depths of her bag. “What we think might be the Gryffindor horcrux.”

Hermione handed the brooch to Harry, who weighed it in his hand for the briefest of moments before he set it down in front of them and shook his head. “Dunno about it being Gryffindor’s, but it’s not a horcrux.”

Hermione looked taken aback. “What? What do you mean? How do you know?”

“I can tell.” Harry tugged at the chain around his neck again, pulling the locket fully out from beneath his jumper this time. Ron felt sick at the sight of it; he wouldn’t trade being reunited with Harry for anything, but that damned locket was another matter. “I can feel it. I was fairly certain just from the locket, but the diadem is the same way. It’s like I can...sense his presence, in a way. And this—“ he indicated the lion “—doesn’t have it.”

Hermione sighed and flopped back onto the couch. “I was so sure. Everything seemed to fit.” She sat up straight again and leveled her gaze at Harry. “Are you going to explain your sudden interest in this connection you have to You-Know-Who?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “For Merlin’s sake, Hermione, can’t you call him Vo—“

“ _ No _ !” Ron and Hermione yelled in unison, so adamantly that Harry actually stopped for once.

“There’s a Taboo on his name,” Ron explained quickly. “Death Eaters are using it to track people. So you can’t say it. Like, you  _ really _ can’t say it.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, okay. I won’t.” He looked sternly over at Hermione. “I’ll explain, but I don’t want a lecture about it, alright?”

Hermione frowned slightly, but mimed zipping her lips shut. Ron bit back a laugh at her indignant expression.

“It wasn’t exactly intentional, at first. You two were gone, but I still had this mission, still had the blasted horcrux to look out for. So I wore it, all the time, just like we were doing before, except it was only me. It was pretty rough, those first few days. But then I realized that if I stopped fighting it and sort of leaned into it instead, it wasn’t as bad. It was constant, that awful, gloomy feeling, but it wasn’t quite so severe. Didn’t come on suddenly, like it had before. And it made it easier to deal with. Like...background noise. Like somebody forgot to switch off the wireless.

“And then I realized that it actually  _ was _ like having a wireless on. That I could sort of hear his thoughts. It was like what had been happening before, with my scar, except it was just always there, it wasn’t these little episodes just when he was angry or whatever. And I figured, sod it, I’m on my own, might as well use whatever I can, and I started listening. I don’t  _ think _ it’s going both ways, but I can’t really be sure. That’s why I said he might know we’re hunting horcruxes. But he might not. Better safe than sorry, right? So I went to Hogwarts.”

Hermione and Ron sat silent for a moment, waiting, but Harry had seemingly finished. “So how did you know about the diadem?” Ron asked. “You heard him thinking about it?”

Harry nodded. “Not the diadem specifically, but about Ravenclaw. I didn’t put it together until a few days ago, when I went to the Lovegoods.”

“So I was right,” Hermione said, mostly to Ron. “He went to see Luna.”

“Er, no, I went to see Xenophilius actually, but how...” Harry cocked his head, looking perplexedly at Hermione. “How’d you know I was there?”

Hermione shot an apologetic glance at Ron, who sat up to explain this part. “Like I said, I don’t really know how it works, but we, um...heard you. In the deluminator.”

Harry looked, if possible, even more confused by this detail. “Huh?”

“On Christmas morning, I heard your voice come out of it. You said my name, and some other stuff I couldn’t make out, but I thought I heard you say something about the Burrow. So we clicked it, the deluminator, and that blue light came out of it, and it took us to Ottery St. Catchpole.”

“Yeah, I was there. I still had some of that muggle’s batch of Polyjuice, the red headed one from the village, so I went to the Lovegoods as Barney Weasley from the wedding. Said my cousin Ron lived nearby at the Burrow.”

Ron felt oddly vindicated that he’d been right about the deluminator—not just once, but twice, he supposed, since it had also gotten them out of Hogwarts. Hermione gave his hand a squeeze; she must have been thinking the same.

“So, Xenophilius,” Ron prompted. “What was that about?”

“I went to the cemetery in Godric’s Hollow. Saw my parents.” Harry hesitated, remembering, then shook his head and went on, “There was this other headstone there—bloke called Peverell. And it had this weird symbol on it. Could swore I’d seen it somewhere before but couldn’t figure out where. Finally dawned on me: Xenophilius had it on a pendant ‘round his neck at the wedding.”

Hermione gasped so dramatically that Ron was sure she had sucked all the air out of the tent. She shot towards her bag again, and emerged this time with  _ The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. “I  _ told _ you,” she said triumphantly, again to Ron, as she flipped through the pages. “I told you I’d seen it somewhere. Harry, is it this?” She held the book out to him, open to The Tale of the Three Brothers. Harry’s stunned expression was all the answer she needed. “So it’s all connected. But who are the Peverells? What did Mr. Lovegood say about it?”

Ron held both hands up in front of him. “Hold on, one weird mystery at a time. What about the diadem?”

“Mr. Lovegood—and Luna, I suppose, when she’s at home—are trying to recreate it. He has this makeshift bust of Rowena Ravenclaw in the living room, where he’s putting it together. And like I said, I’d had my hands on it last year, if only I’d known. So I went back for it.”

“And the Peverells?” Hermione asked urgently.

“They’re thought to be the three brothers, from the story. The original owners of the Deathly Hallows.”

“The what?”

“You know, the objects they get from Death, in the story. The wand, the stone, and the cloak.”

Ron shook his head. “Mate, those things aren’t real. It’s just a kids’ story.”

Hermione looked at him sharply. “Then what’s the meaning of the symbol?”

“Must just be a sign of people who believe in that stuff. There’s always someone looking for this super-powerful wand, but it’s a myth. A legend. And, I mean, consider the source.” Ron was fond of Luna, but she and her dad were quite odd. “If Xenophilius Lovegood thinks these Hallows are real, I reckon that’s all you need to know.”

Harry shrugged. “It was a worthwhile trip, in any case. Led me to the diadem.” Ron agreed, since Harry’s trip to the Lovegoods had also led him back to himself and Hermione, but if Harry wasn’t going to mention that part, Ron certainly wasn’t. Harry picked up the deluminator from where it rested on the table beside the (apparently worthless) golden lion, and to Ron’s surprise, let out a low laugh. “Y’know, the old man’s dead, and he still manages to surprise me,” he said with a shake of his head. “That he knew, he just  _ knew_, that he could leave this thing to you with no instructions whatsoever, and you would figure it out. He obviously thought a lot of you, Dumbledore.”

Ron scoffed. “Reckon it’s the opposite, if anything.” He picked anxiously at a loose thread on the sofa and added sheepishly, “Considering what it does, I mean...he must’ve known I’d run out on you.”

“No,” Harry said, so firmly that Ron looked up and met his gaze again. “He must’ve known you’d always want to come back.”


	27. Chapter 27

They spent much of the day with both tents set up side-by-side, moving things back into the larger tent while they continued to catch up on what they had missed during the month-long separation. It felt a bit strange to be back there, after the way they had left. Hermione sensed that Ron was particularly hesitant to reenter Perkins’ tent at first, but he did so without a fuss and seemed to relax as the day went on. It was a bit more of a mess than it had been before, but Hermione supposed Harry hadn’t felt the need to clean up after only himself.

She was glad now that they had gone to Godric’s Hollow, despite her hesitations; Ron’s graffitied message on the sign at Harry’s house had, it seemed, been positively received. She couldn’t be certain how openly Harry would have welcomed them back regardless—or, truthfully, how open he was to it even now. It wasn’t exactly what Hermione would call comfortable, the atmosphere among the three of them, though she certainly hadn’t expected it to be, at least not right away. But they were there, together. It was a good enough place to start.

Harry had, for reasons Hermione didn’t press him on, volunteered to take the first watch of the night, leaving her and Ron alone in the tent. It was tempting to forgo the idea of watch altogether; after being separated for weeks, Hermione just wanted the three of them to stay together. Even having Harry mere meters away, just outside the tent, felt like a great distance. But this was obviously impractical, and dangerous, and so Hermione didn’t argue the point.

She found Ron in the bathroom preparing to brush his teeth; he gave her a quick smile as she leaned against the entryway. “Forgot what a luxury running water was,” he said lightly, flipping the faucet off.

Hermione chuckled her agreement; they’d been forced to use a lot of  _aguamenti_ charms for basic hygiene these past weeks, which had gotten quite messy at times and involved a lot of vanishing charms afterwards. “How are you feeling about everything?” she asked.

Ron gave a shrug, and responded around a mouthful of toothpaste. “Okay, I guess. You?”

Hermione shrugged back. “About as good as we could have hoped for, I suppose.” She hesitated. “Are  _we_ okay?”

Ron looked over at her in alarm and then spit quickly into the sink. “Aren’t we?”

His reaction made her feel silly for even thinking about it, but it had only been two days (though with everything that had happened since, it seemed like much longer) since his worries about her and Harry had come to light. She felt like they had sufficiently cleared that issue, but she also didn’t want their reunion with Harry to cloud Ron’s judgment about it.

“I am if you are.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t...not say things. I don’t want to do that anymore, with you. Why’d you bring it up?” He raised an eyebrow at her expectantly. He was absolutely right, she knew, but actually voicing what she was thinking to him was still an adjustment from their old habits.

“You’re not...” Hermione shifted awkwardly and folded her arms across her chest. “Not still worried about Harry and I, are you?”

“No.” Ron rinsed his mouth before continuing. “I’m not saying it started with the locket, but the damn thing made everything worse, and I just convinced myself that...well, you know.”

Hermione bit her lip, wondering if they ought to carry their immunity deal further into the relationship before pointing out softly, “The locket’s back, too, though.” Harry had yet to take it off, claiming he was fine since learning how to deal with it, but that seemed like an incredibly unfair solution, now that they were once again a trio, and she couldn’t help but worry how Ron would handle it this time around.

Ron sighed heavily, and she knew instantly that he struggled with the same concern. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

She stepped closer to him and rose up on her toes, near enough to smell the spearmint on his breath. “Suppose we’ll just have to do plenty of snogging so you don’t forget what’s real.”

He laughed and wrapped his arms around her, the mood instantly lighter. “That’s why they call you the brightest witch of our age,” he teased, leaning down to kiss her. He nodded to the towel and pile of clothes she’d carried in with her. “Shower?”

“Yes, I also thought I’d partake in the joys of a tent outfitted with proper plumbing,” she joked. The extent of the bath they had created in her parents’ tent was a large basin that they conjured and had to fill with water from their wands, which was highly inconvenient. Aside from Harry, a proper shower was the thing Hermione had missed the most during the separation.

Still with an arm around her waist, Ron shuffled them around in the confined space so that he was now nearest the door. “Well, I’m sorted, so I’ll leave you to it.”

“You can—“ She stopped abruptly, and then forced herself to finish the impulsive thought. “Stay.” The last bit came out strangled with nerves, and Ron’s bright blue eyes went very wide. “Just, you know, to talk,” she went on anxiously. “I don’t mean that you should...I mean...that  _we_ should...” She shook her head. “Never mind, I’m sure you want to get some sleep before you take over Harry’s watch.”

“No, no, I’ll...stay.” Ron also seemed to struggle with the word. “If you want me to?” Hermione nodded and turned her back to him to start the tap before she lost her nerve.

She wondered as she adjusted the temperature of the water, what on earth had gotten into her. It wasn’t as if she had asked him to come into the shower with her, but still, she was going to be  _nude_ in the same very small room as  _Ron_. It felt like quite a step considering they had only properly kissed two days ago, but at the same time, she knew these were steps she wanted to take with him, and had for some time now.

When she turned back to him, Ron was already facing away from the shower, and she could see that he had his eyes scrunched very tightly shut. “Tell me when it’s, y’know, safe,” he requested quietly. Hermione took a deep breath. The water was running, and he wasn’t looking, and there was nothing for it now, really. Summoning a very different brand of courage than the one required for hunting horcruxes, Hermione quickly undressed, remembering at the last moment to kick her knickers beneath her jeans on the floor, out of view, and stepped into the shower.

“Okay,” she said, raising her voice just slightly to be heard above the water.

“Okay,” Ron echoed, followed by several moments of loaded silence. “So, er...what’d you want to talk about?”

The truth was that she had had plenty of topics in mind to discuss with Ron, before she had gone absolutely mad and decided to shower with him just on the other side of what now seemed like a very flimsy curtain. She could just make him out as a vaguely-shaped shadow through the plastic, and wondered if she looked the same to him. “I’m disappointed we didn’t find a horcrux,” she ventured finally.

“The diadem?”

“No, the lion.”

“Well, we weren’t sure if it was or wasn’t. At least now we know.”

Hermione frowned as she reached for the shampoo bottle. “Yes, but...”

“But...?” Ron prompted when she didn’t continue.

“It doesn’t make sense that it wasn’t one.” She had actually been fairly certain about it, based on everything she had read about horcruxes, and the stomach-turning process by which they were created. “You don’t just create a horcrux every time someone is killed. There’s a ritual that has to be followed. Dumbledore surmised that You-Know-Who was creating his horcruxes only on significant murders.”

“Well, Harry would’ve been that, for sure,” Ron agreed. “Having the power to vanquish the dark lord, and whatnot.”

“Exactly.” Hermione paused, thinking as she lathered her hair.

“But the curse rebounded. Harry wasn’t murdered. No murder, no horcrux, yeah?”

“Well, the particulars of that are hardly spelled out, seeing as no one but Harry’s ever survived a killing curse. But everything would have been completed prior to the spell being cast, everything he would have needed to do in order to rip his soul. And the brooch; making a horcrux out of something of Gryffindor’s, in his birthplace. Everything fit.”

“We don’t even know that brooch belonged to Gryffindor, Hermione. We were just speculating.”

“Then what was he planning to make into a horcrux? He must have had something. But no one had been in that room for sixteen years, until you and I. So what else could it have been?”

“Okay, say the brooch  _was_ Gryffindor’s, and You-Know-Who  _was_ planning to make it a horcrux. He didn’t succeed. What’s it matter?”

“It matters because...” Hermione trailed off again, her mind racing as she rinsed out her hair, combing her fingers through the too-long curls.

“You know, usually when you get all pensive like this, I can follow your facial expressions, but I can’t see you at the mo’, remember? Use your words.” Hermione peeked around the shower curtain to glare at Ron, who was wearing a cheeky grin that slid from his face as he took in the sight of her bare shoulder, a sudden reminder to them both of Hermione’s current state of undress. She saw him swallow forcibly as his expression morphed into what she could only describe as desire.

“It  _matters_ ,” she tried again, forcing herself to carry on the conversation despite the temperature spike in the room that had nothing to do with the hot water beating down on her, “because if he’d already ripped off a bit of his soul, and it’s not in that lion, then where is it?”

Ron frowned thoughtfully and shifted his gaze to the wall opposite him. “You think there’s another horcrux? Or, his soul’s just floating around somewhere, like the bit of him that was in hiding all that time?”

“I’m not sure.” One possibility stuck out to her, but it was too horrible to consider. And yet, it would explain some things...

“You’re not sure, but what do you  _think_?” Ron asked pointedly, and damn, he knew her way too well.

Hermione didn’t want to say it out loud, out of an irrational fear that she would speak it into reality. But Ron had gone silent, waiting for her answer. “He can hear him, Ron,” she said finally, almost too softly to be heard over the shower. “What if there’s a reason?”

There was a heavy pause from the other side of the curtain. “The locket...” Ron replied feebly, but she could tell he was grasping at straws, also unwilling to entertain the idea that a bit of Voldemort’s soul had attached to their best friend.

“The locket intensified it, but it’s always been this way, hasn’t it?”

“Shit.” Hermione chanced another look around the curtain at Ron, who had now covered his face with his hands. “I wouldn’t’ve thought anything could distract me from being around you naked for the first time, but fuck if that didn’t do it,” he muttered. Hermione laughed, and when he looked at her again, fear was now the overwhelming emotion in his eyes. “What if you’re right?” His question sobered her right back up.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” She ducked back into the shower to finish up. “Even if that bit of his soul took up residence in Harry, it doesn’t necessarily mean that Harry himself is a horcrux. It doesn’t mean that he’ll have to...” She couldn’t say it. A horcrux was only destroyed when its host was irreparably damaged. In the case of a human host, that could surely not mean anything but death. “I’m not even sure it’s possible. For a person to be a horcrux.”

“Do you reckon we ought to tell him?”

Hermione sighed and shut off the water. “As much as I don’t want to keep secrets from Harry, at least let me go over the books again before we say anything. I don’t want him to do anything rash.”

“Harry?  _Rash_?” Ron returned in mock sarcasm. “Yeah, we’ll keep this between us for now.”

Hermione chuckled and reached for her towel, only to realize that in her haste to get into the shower, she had apparently left it sitting on the sink instead of hanging it up where she could easily grab it. “Um, Ron? Could you hand me my towel?” She leaned partially around the curtain again, and Ron moved to hand her the towel without hesitation, but he seemed to realize at the same time she did that this brought them much, much closer together. “I—I’ll just be a second,” she said breathlessly.

She moved quickly to dry off, using these brief moments to force her brain back into gear. Because what  _exactly_ were her intentions here? She clearly had not thought this all the way through when she had asked Ron to stay, and she was now going to face him wearing nothing but a towel and...what? It would be an outright lie to say she hadn’t thought about sex (and if she were entirely truthful, she had only ever considered it in the context of her present company in the loo), but her knowledge of the subject was strictly theoretical, and the current situation felt suddenly like a practical exam she hadn’t adequately prepared for.

But then again, this was  _Ron_. She trusted him explicitly. And, as she reminded herself, his experience beyond snogging was as nonexistent as hers. Like so many other things in their lives, they were in this together. With another deep breath, Hermione tucked the towel tightly around her body and pulled back the curtain to step out.

His gaze roved over her quickly before returning to her face. His eyes were dark as he tentatively lifted one hand to rest on her hip, and used the other to trail his fingertips gently along her collarbone and over her shoulder. Hermione shivered at even this innocent touch of his bare skin on hers. “Okay?” Ron whispered. She nodded. “You sure?” In answer, she leaned up and kissed him, and he responded immediately, pulling her in close as he kissed her back hungrily.

Their other snogs thus far had not been like this. Maybe it was leftover adrenaline from yet another harrowing escape from danger, or maybe it had little to do with anything other than the fact that she was nearly starkers, but in any case, there was an almost desperate quality to Ron’s movements. The way he kissed her neck and nipped at her earlobe before burying his face in her wet hair with a groan in which she just barely made out her name. The way he spun them around to put her back to the sink basin as he returned his lips to hers, his body pressed against hers in places that were wholly  _un_ -theoretical. She couldn’t explain it, but she understood: he wanted  _more_ , and so did she.

She tore her lips from his abruptly, and the unspoken question in his eyes disappeared as soon as she reached for the hem of his shirt. He helped her pull it off over his head and tossed it carelessly to the floor, where it landed in the pile with her discarded clothes. Hermione drank him in, running her hands up his stomach, along his chest, over his heart, until she got to his shoulder and stopped cold. Ron seemed to sense the mood change immediately, but it was clear he didn’t realize what had caused it. “What’s wrong?” He followed her gaze down to the angry red splinching scar, and the pattern of marks left by the brains from the Department of Mysteries beneath it, and shook his head. “It’s fine, Hermione. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“It’s not that,” she said softly, though she was certainly glad to hear it no longer pained him, considering she was the one who had caused his most recent injury. “I just...we...”

“You find my arm horribly grotesque and are no longer attracted to me?” He was teasing, she knew, but it was hard to find anything funny when faced with such a glaring reminder of the ever-looming peril they were in. The brain scars, though faded, served as another relic and reinforced her fear. They were never safe.

“Ron,” she sighed.

He took her face in his hands and stooped to her level. “What?” he asked gently, all joking gone.

She slid her hand away from the splinching scar and back to his chest, taking comfort in the steady beat of his heart underneath her palm. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “Not of this. Not of us. But everything else.” Ron nodded, dropping his hands to wrap around her and tuck her in close. He held her for a long moment before he pulled away and reached for his shirt. She stilled him before he could put it on and leaned over to place a kiss on his shoulder, right on the scar. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Ron pulled the shirt back over his head and Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the way it had ruffled his hair. He pulled her in to kiss her again, and though she could still feel his physical reaction to their earlier heated snogging pressed between them, all the fire was gone from his touch, replaced with a reassuring tenderness. She had thought already that she loved him, but she was beginning to realize that she had actually underestimated the depth of her feelings. She was going to have to find a way to tell him that before something happened to one of them.

And, she mused as Ron gave her a last kiss on the forehead and left her alone in the bathroom, she was going to have to find a way to finish what they had just started. These moments alone together were going to be infrequent, now that they were back with Harry, and she felt horrible about ruining an opportunity. But she would figure out how to make it up to him. Ron had a point; they didn’t call her the brightest witch of their age for nothing.


	28. Chapter 28

It became apparent very quickly that sleep was going to be elusive for Ron that night. Frankly, he wasn’t sure after that encounter with Hermione how he was supposed to calm himself down enough to sleep ever again.

He did, however, commit himself to a solid state of  _ pretending _ to be asleep, rolling over to face the side of the tent and making soft (and hopefully believable) snoring sounds once he heard Hermione emerge from the loo a few minutes later. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed, or that he  _ wanted _ to avoid her; quite the opposite, in fact. He was actually worried that if he didn’t feign sleep, then Hermione wouldn’t go to sleep either, and then he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from going to her bed or bringing her to his, and taking things well past the point they had reached in the bathroom. And although it seemed pretty clear that Hermione wanted the same things he did, it was  _ very _ clear from her abrupt halt at the sight of his mangled arm that tonight was not the time for those things.

After tossing and turning for several hours, sleeping only in short, unsatisfying bursts, Ron gave up and decided to relieve Harry a bit early from his watch. He pulled on his coat and grabbed a blanket before pushing open the tent flap to step outside. Harry looked up at him and then at his watch. “Thought we were switching at three?” Ron shrugged and conjured a chair next to Harry’s.

“Couldn’t sleep. I can take the rest of the night.” Harry shifted in his chair but didn’t get up. It felt even more awkward, just the two of them, than it had been with Hermione as a buffer, but if they were going to move past this, they had to start somewhere.

“Might sit up with you for a bit, then,” Harry said hesitantly. “If you wouldn’t mind the company.”

“Not at all,” Ron replied, surprised but not opposed.

They sat together in silence for a while before Harry finally spoke. “Look, I...I owe you an apology, as well, about what happened.”

Ron scoffed. “You really don’t.”

“Yeah, I do.” Harry’s tone was serious, a stark contrast to the skeptical look Ron was giving in return. “You gave up a lot more than I did to do this. And I should have been more understanding of that. Fuck, mate, I  _ told _ you to leave, that night.”

“I still shouldn’t’ve done it.”

Harry shrugged, as if this fact were irrelevant. “Let’s just agree we were both prats and move on, yeah?”

Ron searched Harry’s face, but he showed no signs of hesitation in what he was saying. “Yeah, alright.”

“I am curious though.” Ron raised an eyebrow at him, waiting. “Hermione?”

“Never meant to leave,” Ron replied immediately. “You’ve got to know that. She came after me to get me to stay, and I didn’t listen, and when I went to disapparate, she grabbed my coat and came with by accident. Bloody lucky I didn’t splinch us both.”

Harry nodded, processing this, though Ron hoped he wasn’t saying anything Harry didn’t already know. “I kind of figured, but she...well, she’s mad about you, you know? So I wouldn’t have been completely surprised either way.”

It was different, somehow, hearing this information from Harry. That Hermione’s feelings for him were such a known quantity that Harry would have still excused her leaving with him, even if that had been the reason.

“Yeah, I’ve sort of come ‘round to that conclusion, myself,” Ron chuckled.

“Took you two long enough,” Harry teased, prodding Ron with his elbow. “So, c’mon, what happened? Just remember, anything you wouldn’t want to know about your sister, I don’t want to know about mine.” He said it so casually, unsolicited; Hermione had said the same thing about Harry. How had Ron let himself become so convinced that there was any more to it than that?

“Well, it’s really only been a couple days.”

“You’re kidding.” Ron shook his head. “Damn, I’d’ve thought...all this time alone...which one of you finally cracked?”

“Er...s’pose it was technically me. We were having a row, and—“ Harry’s laugh cut him off.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Go on, then.”

“And I finally just plucked up the bollocks and kissed her.” That wasn’t quite an accurate retelling of what had happened the other night, but there was absolutely no way Ron was going to admit  _exactly_ what they had been rowing about.

“What about, y’know, the whole Lavender situation? Everything sorted there?”

“Think so.” Ron gave an indignant scoff, remembering what Hermione had told him. “D’you know Lavender told Hermione that I shagged her? Frequently, and quite well, apparently.”

“ _ What _ ?” Harry returned incredulously. “Why?”

“Dunno. Some weird territorial girl thing, I reckon. Making sure Hermione kept her distance.” Ron paused. “You know I didn’t, though, right?”

“Yeah, ‘course. You’d’ve told me.”

Ron thought that under normal circumstances, that would have been a given, for both of them. They were best mates, and best mates talked about these things. And now that it seemed Hermione was inclined to explore the physical side of their relationship, perhaps sooner than Ron would have ever dared to dream, it would have been nice to be able to turn to Harry for advice. But any useful experience Harry may have had (and truthfully, Ron had no idea whether he had any or not), he had gotten with Ron’s little sister. And though Ron had no problem with Harry dating Ginny, assuming they survived long enough for him to ask her out again, he didn’t need to hear the particulars. But now that he’d thought about it, the fact that he didn’t know this monumental fact about his best friend nagged at his brain.

“Would  _ you_?” Ron asked finally. “Have told me?” He wondered if Hermione knew the extent of their physical relationship; Ginny probably would have told her, even if Harry hadn’t.

Harry glanced sidelong at him, seeming to understand the meaning of his vague question, as he suddenly looked quite nervous. “Feel like this is a trick question and you’re going to hex me either way.”

“No tricks,” Ron promised. “And like you said, I don’t need details. Just yes or no, did you and Ginny...?”

“Go all the way?” Harry shook his head. “No. Go part of the way? Well...”

“Ugh!” Ron covered his ears with his hands and groaned. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“Gladly.” Harry looked a little too amused for Ron’s liking. Maybe he would rethink the hex, after all. “Would you want me to have told you, if we had?”

“I dunno,” Ron said honestly. “As your best mate, yeah. As your girlfriend’s brother, not so much.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s a bridge we’ll have to cross anytime soon.” Harry looked down at the ground, watching the leaves he was idly swirling around with his wand. “If ever. She’s quite pissed at me, you know. For leaving.”

“Think she’s more pissed she couldn’t come with you.”

“I would never have let her put herself in this much danger.”

“Well, the fact you think you  _let_ Ginny do anything is your first mistake,” Ron pointed out with a laugh. “Only reason she’s not here is having the trace on her would get us all killed. Otherwise I reckon there’d have been no stopping her.”

“All the more reason to end this thing. Before she turns seventeen and hunts us down.” Harry was joking, but knowing Ginny, that wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibilities.

“Good thing we have two tents now.” Ron sighed. “Merlin, you think we’ll still be out here in August?”

Harry frowned and tugged absently at the chain at his neck. Ron couldn’t fathom why Harry was still wearing the damn thing, though he was in much better spirits than he had been before, so maybe he was telling the truth about having learned how to manage it. “Hope not, but we don’t really have a way to end it at this point.”

“At least we’re another horcrux closer.” Maybe two, if Hermione’s theory held water, though Ron had never so desperately wished her to be wrong in all the years they had known each other. Ron glanced over at Harry; he had been through so much in his life, it seemed entirely unfair to imagine yet another shitty circumstance for him. And what if he actually was a horcrux? Were they really supposed to  _ destroy _ their best friend? Harry would probably off himself if he knew, the selfless git, but then who would kill Voldemort, since according to the prophecy, only Harry could do it? “You know, you’ve left the diadem in your bag.”

“Yeah?”

“So, you could probably leave the locket too, don’t you think? Or you ought to wear both. Think you’d look smashing in the tiara.”

Harry laughed. “Sod off.” He paused. “I like knowing what he’s doing,” he admitted quietly. “It makes me feel like I’m a step ahead for once.”

“What happens if we find the sword, then?” Ron asked worriedly. “You’re not going to want to keep the locket around just to stay in his head, are you?”

“No.” Ron wished he entirely believed him. “But for now, it’s the only edge I’ve got.” Harry stood and pocketed his wand. “You alright out here? I’m going to head to bed.” Ron nodded his agreement and bid Harry goodnight.

Left alone in the dark, Ron’s thoughts waffled between his two best friends, though in wildly different contexts. He forced himself to focus on Harry. As much as he didn’t want to believe that it was necessary, they needed a contingency plan, in case Hermione was right about Voldemort’s unintentional horcrux. They needed a way to determine for certain what they were dealing with, first of all. But most importantly, they needed a way around Harry having to die, if he really was embedded with a bit of Voldemort’s soul.

Harry would do it. That was maybe the most terrifying part of it. Harry would willingly give himself up—leave them, leave Ginny, leave all of it—if it meant that no other families would suffer at Voldemort’s hand the way his had. Ron knew it as certainly as he knew his own name. Harry, who had been branded for nearly his entire life as The Boy Who Lived, would  _die_ to save the world. And Ron was now tasked with doing whatever he had to do to prevent that happening.


	29. Chapter 29

Hermione was out of bed with her wand in her hand before she was even fully awake. The noise that had woken her, she realized with a sigh that wasn’t exactly one of relief, was Harry. He was tossing and turning in his bunk, mumbling incoherently and groaning, and his forehead had broken out in sweat. He was having a nightmare. Of course he was; he was sleeping with the locket on. She scolded herself for being even mildly surprised that Harry wasn’t as fine with the blasted horcrux as he was claiming. She had known him _how_ long, after all?

“Harry,” she hissed. She set her wand down on her bunk and gave his shoulder a hard shake. He didn’t wake up, but it seemed to at least settle him a bit. The long chain’s clasp was sitting on Harry’s shoulder, and Hermione took advantage, unlatching it and pulling at both ends of the chain until she held the locket in her hand. Unburdened from the horcrux, Harry’s face relaxed in his sleep. Well, that settled that. If nothing else, he shouldn’t sleep with it on, though she knew an argument would come in the morning.

It would make sense for whoever was on watch to take it, and then Harry could have it during the day; he did, admittedly, seem to have a handle on it, as long as he was conscious. But at the moment, that would mean walking outside and handing the locket to Ron, and she wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ do that to him. Hermione sat cross-legged on her bunk and looked down at the pendant in her hand.

They had to get rid of it. What this thing had done to them, to _Ron_...She still didn’t completely understand. The way he had described it to her, it was as if the locket talked to him. She had never experienced that with it. And Harry, clearly, had some even greater connection to the damn thing. She had to know, had to understand. Against her better judgment, Hermione refastened the clasp and dropped the chain over her neck.

She felt it immediately. Heavy. A weight pressing in on her chest, her lungs, that had nothing to do with the locket’s physical size. She took a deep breath, then another. The locket gave her a foggy sort of feeling; it reminded her of the boggart she had faced in Harry’s house. Herself, but dark, desperate...alone.

She reflexively glanced over at Harry’s bunk. He was still there. She wasn’t alone. And Ron—Ron was just outside the tent, keeping watch. Wasn’t he?

Hermione was on her feet again in a flash to go check but she clenched her fists and fought against the eerie feeling. _It’s the locket. Ron’s right there. He’s not gone. You’re imagining things._

She sat down again on the edge of the bunk and fingered the chain. Her fears were unfounded, but she wasn’t imagining the feelings the locket was forcing to the surface. She felt anxious, and jumpy, and scared, and...where was Ron? Harry was in his bunk, and she was on her bunk, and Ron’s was empty.

_He’s on watch. He’s right outside._

But the sudden need to confirm it was overwhelming, the panic threatening to consume her completely. She got to her feet and all but ran to the tent entrance, flinging the flap open. And rather than the empty expanse of rocky shoreline that the locket had quickly convinced her to expect, there was Ron. On watch. Right where he was supposed to be.

She didn’t even realize how her chest was heaving until she saw the concern on Ron’s face as he scrambled to his feet. She must have looked quite a fright, stumbling out there, half awake and verging on hysterical. “Hermione!” Ron said sharply, and she realized with a start that he was now standing right in front of her, and she got the impression this was not the first time he had said her name. “What’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

Hermione reached out and rested her hands on his forearms, needing to touch him to know he was really there. She forced herself to focus. He had asked her a question. What _was_ wrong?

Before she could find the words to answer, Ron had grasped the chain of the locket and pulled it off over her head. “Why the _hell_ are you wearing this?”

Unburdened by the horcrux, the darkness was receding rapidly. Hermione took a deep breath to steady herself. “Harry had a nightmare.”

“And you thought that was your cue to have a turn with the fucking thing?” Ron asked incredulously. “I thought you and I agreed none of us ought to be wearing it?”

“We did. We do.” Hermione’s throat closed around the other reason she had put the locket on, and she realized suddenly how very cold she was, outside in nothing but thin pajamas.

“Okay, then...what the hell?” Ron couldn’t seem to determine whether he wanted to look at her or glare at the locket.

“I...” She shivered, pulling her sleeves down over her hands. “I wanted to feel what you felt,” she admitted quietly. “I wanted to understand.”

“You’re bloody mental, Hermione, d’you know that?” Ron shook his head and leaned over to place a quick kiss on her forehead. “Go get some sleep, you’re freezing.” Hermione held her hand out for the locket, but his fist closed around it as he gave her a dubious look. “You’re not sleeping with this thing on.”

“Well, I don’t want _you_ to have to keep it,” Hermione retorted. She reached for Ron’s hand, but he pulled it away from her.

“I can handle it.” He grit his teeth and shoved the locket deep into the pocket of his coat. At least he didn’t put it on.

“Ron—“

“I can handle it,” he repeated firmly. His blue eyes held hers intently, and she knew neither of them intended to back down. She couldn’t. She knew Ron would never leave again on his own, had never, truly, meant to leave the first time...but the locket was back and all bets were off. Why was he so intent on risking it? “You don’t trust me?” he asked finally, his lips twitching in annoyance.

“I don’t trust _that_.” Hermione jabbed her finger in the direction of Ron’s pocket. “I won’t sleep with it on, just let me take it back inside. Please.”

“I don’t need protecting, Hermione,” Ron said irritably.

“It’s not that, it’s just—“

“What? You think I’ll leave again, is that it?” Hermione’s hesitation was just a split-second too long. “Damn it, Hermione, I thought we’d gotten past this! I thought—“ Ron cut himself off and ran a hand through his hair. “Forget it. Go back to sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

Hermione sighed and moved to hug him goodnight, but he matched her step backwards. “Fine.” She turned and retreated back into the tent. She was freezing now, but the only blanket available to add to her bed was Ron’s. She grabbed it with a sigh, curling underneath it and chastising herself for thinking things might actually be different between them now that they were more than friends.

She was the opposite of freezing when she woke up in the morning; in fact, she was almost suffocatingly hot. She was also, surprisingly, not alone in the tiny bunk.

Ron had slid in next to her, though he seemed to be under only one or two of her many blankets, and he was apparently not asleep, because his eyes shot open as soon as she started shifting around. Once she had rolled around to face him completely, he said quietly, without any preamble, “I’m sorry, Hermione.”

For a moment she was so distracted to be sharing a bed with Ron—how long had he been here, anyway?—that she forgot what he could possibly be apologizing for, and then she remembered their middle-of-the-night spat and frowned. “Where’s the locket now? Where’s Harry?”

“He has it. Went for a walk.” Ron sighed and shifted towards her, though he still had not touched her at all despite their close proximity. “I’m not leaving you, Hermione,” he promised softly. “There’s nothing that locket could say to me now to make me want to go.”

Hermione raised a hand to his cheek and, with the unspoken permission this movement granted, Ron draped his arm across her waist, pulling her ever so slightly closer. “You don’t know that,” she breathed. “I trust _you_ , Ron, I really do, but that _thing_ —“ Her eyes were watering and she shook her head against the pillow. “Why even take the chance with it?”

Ron rested his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to feel like I’m the weak link here. If I just let you and Harry take the bloody thing, then it wins. _He_ wins.”

“Ron,” Hermione sighed. “It’s not about winning. I want you to take care of yourself.”

“I don’t mean it like that. Look, we know what it does now. How dangerous it is. If it gets to be too much, I’ll take it off, or stop wearing it, or whatever I need to do.”

“Promise?” Ron’s nose brushed hers as he nodded. She slid her hand into his hair and murmured, “Good. Because I need you. I can’t do this alone. So don’t be a bloody Gryffindor about it.”

Ron laughed and closed the distance between them to kiss her. The lighthearted moment dissipated in an instant as Hermione deepened the kiss, shifting to her back and pulling Ron with her. He let out a low moan as he settled half on top of her, his knee finding a place between hers, and Merlin, what was she thinking with all these blankets?

“Oh, shit!” Ron jumped away from Hermione to see Harry just inside the entrance to the tent, a hand over his eyes. “We need a signal or something.”

“Sorry, Harry,” Hermione called, reluctantly shifting away from Ron, who was rapidly turning red.

“Don’t be sorry, just, y’know, warn a guy,” Harry returned as he shifted on his feet, still shielding his eyes. “When you’re—er, done—Hermione, a word?” He backed out of the tent, leaving them alone.

Ron sighed. “S’pose we ought to get up anyway,” he said, sliding out of bed before Hermione could even mount a protest.

“Yes. I suppose.” Hermione did not truthfully want to be anywhere but in this bed with Ron, but Harry’s unexpected arrival had interrupted the moment, and they _did_ have work to do. She slid out from under the pile of blankets and threw on her coat to follow Harry outside. “Is everything alright?” she asked him.

Harry folded his arms across his chest. “You took the locket,” he replied, his voice thick with annoyance.

Hermione frowned back at him, unapologetic. “You were having a nightmare. You shouldn’t wear it when you’re asleep.”

“No offense, Hermione, but that’s really not your decision.” His response made Hermione bristle.

“So, as your best friend, I was supposed to just let you suffer through that?” she retorted. “Not to mention what kind of danger you might be putting _all_ of us in if he’s able to get into your head?”

“He’s not.”

“And you know that _how_ , exactly?”

Harry glowered at her but didn’t answer the question. “If you want to discuss arrangements for the locket, then let’s discuss, but don’t make decisions for me.” He brushed past her back into the tent, leaving her to follow.

“I was only looking out for you. I don’t understand what’s so wrong about that.”

Ron looked up from the kitchen as they entered. “What’s going on?”

Harry looked between the two of them before stating firmly, “The locket is _my_ responsibility. And wearing it is _my_ choice.”

“Mate, Hermione was just—“

“Don’t start,” Harry interrupted him. “I don’t want to argue with either of you about this. Just...leave the locket to me, alright?”

Hermione glanced over at Ron. She didn’t want Ron to have to deal with the horcrux, but she also didn’t want Harry to deal with it _alone_. Ron, however, seemed reluctant to argue the matter with Harry, at least so soon after being reunited with him, as he nodded and went back to whatever he was making on the stove. “Fine,” Hermione agreed, not wanting to begin a row between herself and Ron either. “But I _do_ think we should discuss the arrangement.”

“Fine. I’m just not waking up again to a bit of You-Know-Who’s soul gone missing.”

Hermione sighed, but agreed; he probably had been worried to find it gone, though it should have been easy enough for him to figure out where it was. “Fair enough.”

After a tense moment of silence, Ron cleared his throat and held up two plates of eggs. “So...who wants breakfast?”


	30. Chapter 30

Hermione had, rather unsubtly in Ron’s opinion, buried her nose in _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ immediately after breakfast. Harry had taken her explanation of “now that we have two of the horcruxes, it’s even more imperative that we find a way to destroy them” at face value, but Ron knew what she was really looking for in the book.

He had a dreadful feeling that Hermione was right, that Harry was somehow toting around a third bit of Voldemort in his head. Ron found himself staring at the tip of Harry’s famous lightning-shaped scar, just peeking out from beneath his too-long fringe. Maybe if there were some way that they could destroy just his scar, like a tattoo removal charm or something. He knew there was such a process, as Bill had once described to him the painful measures of having an old girlfriend’s magically branded name removed from his arm, but whether it would work on a scar, Ron didn’t know. And if they got rid of the scar, would it actually destroy the horcrux? If, in fact, that was even—

“What?” Harry asked suddenly. Ron jumped slightly, startled out of his thoughts.

“What, what?”

“You’re looking at me funny.”

“Oh, just thought you might’ve practiced over the last month. I’ll have you checked in three moves.” Behind Harry, Hermione raised a disbelieving eyebrow at Ron over the beat-up book in her lap. Harry looked down at the chessboard between them and frowned.

“Damn. Really?” Ron shrugged. He probably _could_ , but that wasn’t the reason for the scrutiny on his best friend, and he wasn’t about to admit otherwise. “Sod it. You win this one. Let’s go again.” The enchanted chess pieces marched obediently back to their starting positions on the board. “So, Hufflepuff’s cup and the snake,” Harry ventured as he nudged one of his pawns. “She’ll be with You-Know-Who, of course, so I reckon that one’ll have to be the last. You two turn up anything about the cup?”

Ron shook his head. “No, nothing.”

“Well, where was that lion thing hidden that made you think it was a horcrux?”

“Wasn’t hidden anywhere, that’s the thing.”

Harry frowned and sat up straighter. “What do you mean? Where’d you find it?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ron saw Hermione’s posture stiffen. They hadn’t been specific about where they’d found the brooch; the details hadn’t seemed relevant after Harry’s quick dismissal of the object as a potential horcrux. But surely if Hermione thought they shouldn’t tell Harry this part, she would speak up. “Well, it was...in your bedroom. Your, y’know, nursery.”

“Wait, you…” Harry looked quickly between Ron and Hermione, who made an exaggerated show of turning pages. “You went _in_ my house?”

Ron drummed his fingers anxiously against the table. He couldn’t tell if Harry was upset by this revelation, or merely surprised. “Didn’t you? You were there.”

“Yeah, but I figured it was way too dangerous to actually go inside.”

Ron glanced over at Hermione, remembering how scared he had been after she had been hurt in the house. “Sort of was.” Harry followed Ron’s gaze, but Hermione wasn’t paying them any mind, or she was at least pretending that she wasn’t. “Part of the upper floor collapsed,” Ron explained. “Hermione got pretty banged up.”

Harry processed this for a moment before looking back at Ron. “I want to go.”

That got Hermione’s attention. “Harry, no,” she said firmly, finally looking up from the book. “It’s too dan—”

“The whole world’s dangerous, Hermione, or hadn’t you noticed?” Harry shot back, earning him a stern glare.

“Exactly why we shouldn’t be taking needless risks that aren’t to do with the mission.”

“What was it like?” Harry pressed. “The house? Are their things still there? Are mine? Are there pictures?” Hermione’s expression softened, giving Harry his answers.

“Harry…” she tried again.

“We’re going.” Ron was sure his face mirrored Hermione’s expression of concern, but Harry’s declaration was firm. “Or, _I_ ’m going, and if you think it’s too dangerous, you can wait here for me.”

“Well, of course we’re not letting you go _alone_ ,” Ron put in. He held Hermione’s gaze as he said it; he could tell that she didn’t like it, but she wasn’t going to argue. He knew they were agreed on this point, at least: there was no way they were splitting up again, even if Harry’s intention was to come right back.

“Good, then I s’pose it’s settled.” Harry glanced back at Ron. “Your move, mate.” For a moment, Harry’s words held a darker meaning than the chess game Ron had all but forgotten about. Ron sighed and pushed one of his pawns forward.

Hermione managed to convince Harry to at least wait a couple of days before returning to Godric’s Hollow, claiming that after being on the move nearly every day for the last week, they needed to rest in order to make the trip safely. Ron was sure Hermione had some other motive for making this argument, but he didn’t find out what it was until late that night when Harry relieved her on watch.

Ron woke up as Hermione slipped into his bunk, the same as he had done to her that morning, and smiled groggily at her. “Hi. Harry on watch?” Hermione nodded as she pulled his blankets nearly up to her chin and snuggled against his side. Ron remembered Harry’s cheeky comment from the day before, the implication that they’d been sharing a bed, and wondered if Hermione intended to stay the rest of the night with him, or if she was just using him as a heater before going to her own bunk. They hadn’t had a moment alone all day, and Ron very much wanted her to stay.

“We need to talk about this Godric’s Hollow thing,” she said immediately.

“Okay. What about it?”

Hermione sat up a little to look Ron in the eye. “I need you to talk him out of it. He’s not going to listen to me, but he might you.”

Ron sighed. “Sounds like he’s going, with or without us. You heard him this morning.” Being on his own had noticeably hardened Harry, and though Ron knew he was glad that they were all back together, he was definitely being more headstrong than before about how he thought they ought to approach the mission.

“Yes, but we can’t let that happen. It’s a terrible idea, going back, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I do, but I also know I’m not letting him go alone. And I don’t think it’s fair that I take up on your side now just because you’re my girlfriend.”

“You _could_ take up on my side because you agree with me, but…” Hermione paused and bit her lip. “Is that what I am, then?”

“What?”

“Your girlfriend.” Shit. Had he actually said that out loud? They hadn’t gotten technical about things; they had just done a lot of snogging over the past few days.

“Oh, er…” Hermione was waiting for him to respond, eyebrows raised in amusement. Sod it all. They weren’t supposed to be holding back anymore, were they? Ron reached out and put a hand on her cheek. “Yeah. I mean, if you want to be. I... _I_ want you to be.” Hermione beamed at him and slid up the bed so that her face was very close to his.

“That’s what I want, too,” she whispered, closing the distance between them to kiss him. Ron wrapped his arms around her, shifting her so that the full length of her body was on top of his. Hermione hummed her approval and kissed him more fervently. Too soon, she pulled back and propped herself up against his chest, her breathing a bit erratic. “And as your girlfriend, I think I’m endowed with certain...powers of persuasion.” Her hand drifted down to the hem of his t-shirt.

Ron’s lower half was very interested in whatever she meant by that, but he forced himself not to get distracted. “Reckon you’re right, but I think that would be an abuse of power.”

Hermione’s lips dropped to his neck, and Ron bit back a moan. “I just want us all to be safe,” she murmured between kisses. “Talk to him? Please?”

Ron was close to forfeiting any semblance of control he had in the situation. He flipped them over, and Hermione landed with a squeak on the thin mattress. This had seemed a better idea in theory than it did now with Hermione pinned beneath him, her hair fanned out against his pillow, but he had to say what he needed to say before he completely lost the plot. “Harry already thinks we gang up on him. I don’t want it to be even worse for him now that we’re together. And I don’t want you to be pissed at me if I take his side on something. This part, you and me, I’ll do whatever you want, but in terms of the mission, we’re a trio. We have to be.”

Hermione sighed and reached up to brush at his fringe. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t want to put you in the middle. Well,” she chuckled, “I _do_ , but I won’t. It’s not fair to you.”

“Thank you.” Ron was surprised that she wasn’t putting up more of a fight about it, but he wasn’t complaining.

“Can I...is it okay if I stay here tonight? With you?” She was biting her lip again, and it was taking everything Ron had in him not to snog her senseless.

“Brilliant, ‘course you can.”

“Okay.” Her hands disappeared under the blanket, finding the edge of his shirt again and dipping underneath this time. “Should I let you get back to sleep?” she asked breathlessly as her cold fingers brushed up toward his ribs.

“Sleep is the absolute last thing I want right now,” Ron answered huskily. She had to know that; he had propped himself up on his hands so that he wasn’t crushing her, but there was no way that she couldn’t feel the effect she was having on him.

“What’s the absolute first thing you want right now?” she smirked. Merlin, he had no idea Hermione could be so cheeky. He had certainly fantasized about a more flirtatious side to his bookish best friend, but he wasn’t sure it actually existed, and she was driving him mad right now. Well, two could play that game.

“You don’t know?” Ron returned, shifting his hips playfully against hers. It was surprisingly easy, this new dynamic with Hermione. He would have never thought of saying something like that to her before, but she was inviting the teasing banter, and he was just so comfortable with her. Whatever happened tonight, however far she wanted to take things, he wanted to make sure that she felt the same with him.

Hermione squirmed beneath him, her fingertips still tracing patterns in the skin under his t-shirt. “I think I have a pretty good idea,” she whispered, the mood between them growing rapidly more intense.

Ron dropped the volume of his voice to match hers. “Yeah, I reckon you do.”

His name escaped her in a sigh and destroyed what was left of his restraint. His lips crashed down to hers, and she slid her hands around his back to pull his weight fully down on top of her. She had soon pushed him back up to his elbows to wrestle his shirt off of him, and once it had hit the floor, she arched her back and reached for the hem of her own jumper. She couldn’t quite wriggle out of it given their current position, and she looked up at him, her eyes dark. “Help?” He didn’t need her to ask twice, gently peeling her jumper off over her head, leaving her wearing only a vest. “This too,” she added softly, tugging the edge of it upwards. Ron swallowed nervously. The straps of her bra were visible beneath the vest, but divulging her of her shirt was still an unprecedented step.

“Yeah?”

“Please.”

Ron fumbled for his wand on the table beside the bed and conjured a curtain around the bunk, adding a silencing charm to it for good measure. He didn’t think Hermione intended for them to get as far as actually having sex tonight, but he didn’t want the reason they stopped to be because Harry had wandered into the tent for a cuppa.

Hermione smiled up at him and wordlessly lifted her arms over her head to let him strip her of the vest. He traced a finger along the strap of her bra, over her shoulder, not daring to go any lower, not yet. He lowered himself gently back down to kiss her again, the feel of so much of her bare skin pressed against his making him feel lightheaded. Hermione’s hands were touching every bit of him that she could reach, running over his shoulders, his back, into his hair, but Ron kept his firmly planted to the mattress, scared that any move he made would be the wrong one, would be too much.

As usual, though, Hermione may as well have been able to read his mind, because it didn’t take long for one of her hands to trail down the length of his arm and find his, moving it to rest against her side, close to the edge of her bra but not quite there; giving him permission without forcing his touch. Ron pulled away from kissing her just enough to meet her eyes. “I trust you,” she said softly, answering the question he hadn’t even asked. He was momentarily overwhelmed by the magnitude of her statement, in such a context, but when she pulled his face back down to hers, he realized it was really the only thing that needed to be said between them.


	31. Chapter 31

Each of Hermione’s well-intentioned, carefully articulated arguments had been met with unyielding stubbornness from Harry, which was how the three of them came to be camped out on the familiar hillside outside Godric’s Hollow on New Year’s Eve night.

Harry’s only concession had been to do as Ron and Hermione had done before, spending some time observing the town from afar before barging in. Frustratingly, she hadn’t even been able to sway him into letting her transfigure his looks, as she was planning on doing again for herself and Ron before they made their way into town the next day. His Invisibility Cloak wasn’t quite as infallible as he seemed to imagine it was, but his apparent disregard for safety had intensified in his time alone, and there was no convincing him otherwise.

“He’ll be back soon.” Even more frustratingly, Hermione’s and Harry’s definitions of what constituted sufficient observation time also differed widely, which was why she was currently sitting outside clutching her wand and a jar of bluebell flames, keeping watch not for dark wizards but for Harry’s return from the town pub. Ron sat down beside her and handed her the cup of tea he had brought out.

“Your best friend is an idiot,” Hermione said with a frown before taking a grateful sip of the tea.

Ron chuckled. “Oh, now he’s _my_ best friend? What happened to solidarity?”

“When he decides that it’s necessary to kip into town for alcohol that he’s not even of age to legally obtain, he’s _your_ best friend. When he screws his head back on, he can be ours again.” She sighed. “Honestly, Ron, what’s gotten into him?”

“It’s a holiday, reckon he just wants to take a night off.”

Hermione glared at him. “Don’t give me that rubbish.” She turned and looked back down at the town, which on said holiday was not nearly as quiet as it had been the last time they were there, nearly a month earlier. “He’s different, now.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed heavily. “I know.”

“Do you suppose—“ Hermione stopped herself before she could ask what was an entirely unfair question.

“What?” Ron prompted after a moment.

“Nothing.”

“ _Hermione_ …”

She huffed and asked bluntly, “Do you suppose he’d have been like this if he had just gone on his own from the get-go, like he wanted to?”

“Or is it because we left?” Ron completed her thought, then answered it. “Honestly? Dunno for sure, but I think he’d have been like this either way. He’s quite stubborn, always thinks he can go it alone, but he really does need us, you know?” Hermione nodded her agreement.

“I’m sorry for asking.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Ron scooted closer to her and slipped an arm around her waist. She leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder. “It happened, Hermione. I left. You don’t have to avoid the subject forever.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’m just harping on it, is all.”

“I don’t. Promise.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the activity down below them as Ron’s fingers drifted idly up and down her arm. If she weren’t so terrified for Harry’s safe return, and all of their general well-being on this death-defying mission, she might have classified the setting as romantic.

“What do you suppose forever even looks like?” Hermione mused, pondering Ron’s choice of words. His hand froze against her shoulder.

“How do you mean?” He sounded inexplicably nervous.

“I mean, we’re in the middle of a war,” Hermione replied matter-of-factly. “Forever could only be another three days or so. We could die.”

“Happy New Year,” Ron quipped back sarcastically, earning him an eye roll in return.

“I just don’t suppose I’ve thought about it much, since we’ve been on the run. What life even looks like after we win this thing. _If_ we win this thing.” They were silent another moment. “Like...do you still want to be an Auror?”

She felt him shrug underneath her cheek. “S’pose it depends.”

“On?”

“On how much darkness there still is after the war. As it stands, there’s not even a legitimate Ministry. I haven’t thought much about it, either. The after bit.” He paused. “Besides, I won’t have sat my NEWTS, so they wouldn’t let me in anyway.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you’re quite torn up about not being at school right now,” Hermione retorted with a laugh that Ron echoed.

“There were good things about school,” he protested lightly. “Quidditch...the feasts...and, well... _you_ were there.”

She turned slightly so that she could wrap her arms around his middle. “ _You_ were quite a wonderful part of school, too,” she murmured against his neck.

“Better than books?”

“On your good days,” she teased. Ron rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and she placed a kiss on his cheek as the pop of apparition sounded in front of them, causing them both to jump as Harry emerged from underneath his cloak.

“Bloody hell, Harry,” Ron muttered.

“You were supposed to walk back,” Hermione added accusingly.

Harry shrugged, unconcerned. “This was faster. Less chance of being followed, too.” He tossed the cloak to Hermione in a heap. “See? No Death Eaters hiding underneath.”

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Ron headed her off. “What’d you bring back?” he asked quickly. Hermione turned her irritated glare on Ron, who squeezed her hand and gave her a pleading look. It hadn’t been easy for him these past couple of days, she knew, as she and Harry had repeatedly argued the logistics and practicality of the visit they were now on, while Ron did his best to keep from taking sides.

Harry shrugged again as he flopped down beside them. “Something muggle. It was the closest thing I could _accio_.”

“You used _mag_ —“ Hermione started up indignantly, only to be cut off again by Ron.

“Brilliant. Let’s have a look, then.”

Harry popped the lid of the bottle without even glancing at the label, pouring a large amount of the clear liquid into Ron’s empty teacup and then Hermione’s _not_ empty teacup, ruining what was left of her earl grey, before taking a swig for himself straight from the bottle. Hermione frowned and stood. “Since you’re back, I think I’ll just head off to bed.”

“Come on, Hermione, stay up and have a drink with us. It’s nearly midnight,” Harry protested.

“Exactly, meaning we intend to get up in five hours and go traipsing about your house. And I think it’s best that at least one of us do that well-rested, and not hungover.” She bent down to kiss Ron’s cheek, and he looked at her nervously. She couldn’t be mad at him for allowing Harry to bring them here, but she wasn’t exactly thrilled about him partaking in Harry’s illicit evening celebration, if it could be called that, and she knew he could tell. “Goodnight.”

She was barely inside the tent when she heard a shuffling sound, and Ron mutter to Harry, “Be right back.” She turned to face him as he entered and folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad, I just don’t see why you’re going along with him right now.”

Ron turned and shot a silencing charm at the front of the tent. “Look, he’s going to do what he wants to do, regardless. Would you rather I leave him to his own devices, or would you rather he have some supervision?”

“Some chaperone you are,” Hermione said sarcastically, nodding to the teacup in his hand, which he made to hand to her. She shook her head. “I don’t want any.”

“Drink it. Trust me?”

The earnestness in his bright blue eyes was too much to resist. Hermione gave a beleaguered sigh and took a tiny sip from the mug. She looked up at Ron and frowned. “It’s water.” Ron nodded. “Harry went all the way into town to smuggle water from a muggle pub?”

“No, of course not. I changed mine.”

“You—“

“Remember first year, when Seamus was trying to turn that water to rum and he singed his eyebrows instead?”

Hermione fought to suppress a smile at the silly memory. “That wasn’t a real spell.”

“Yeah, well, nor was ‘sunshine daisy, butter mellow’ but you can still turn a rat yellow, can’t you?” Ron laughed. “There’s a spell for alcohol. And for the reverse.”

“Trust Seamus to know it, and to corrupt the rest of you.”

“I wasn’t corrupted. _I_ was a prefect, thank you.”

Hermione snorted. “Yes, and a perfect angel to boot,” she teased.

“Well, that’s beside the point.” Ron grinned at her. “Anyway...so I’ll just _pretend_ to be drinking with Harry, and I’ll get him to bed at a decent hour. Okay?”

“Okay.” She stretched to wrap her arms around his neck and gave him a long kiss. “Sorry. I should have known better.”

“Just because I’m going along with Harry doesn’t mean I like it. And you’re barking if you think I’m not going to do everything I can to keep this trip as safe as possible. Especially after last time.” Ron tucked a bit of hair behind her ear and kissed her gently on the forehead. “You don’t know how scared I was when you were hurt, Hermione, really.”

She hugged him again, burying her face in his chest to hide the tears she could feel forming. He already had no idea what to do with her when she cried, and she didn’t want to further confuse him with the concept of happy tears. “You’d better get back out there, then.” She pulled back to give him another quick kiss before they separated for the night and she headed off to bed.

Hermione took some satisfaction in the fact that Harry seemed quite miserable in the morning, accepting the coffee Hermione handed him with an incoherent grunt. Ron, too, was making exaggerated complaints about a headache, but he shot Hermione a wink when Harry wasn’t looking, so she knew he had kept to his plan.

Ron insisted that Hermione join Harry under the Invisibility Cloak to walk into town, claiming that he didn’t want the two of them together to be recognized from their previous venture, even though Hermione had chosen entirely different physical features for their transfigurations than the last time. She thought he was perhaps being over-cautious in that respect, but there was no harm in indulging him, and she did find his protectiveness of her sweet if not altogether necessary, so she obliged. Harry, for his part, was too hungover to argue much of anything, so the three of them set off into town before dawn, Hermione and Harry under the cloak, and a sandy-haired Ron walking beside.

Harry wasted no time when they got to the gate at the edge of the property, walking so quickly up the sidewalk that he left Hermione behind. She glanced quickly up the street to make sure there were no townspeople around to see her mysterious appearance from thin air, and then Ron took her hand and they followed the still-invisible Harry.

The house looked the same from the outside; the damage to the floor had all been interior. Hermione heard Harry take a deep breath from the seemingly empty spot on the front porch, hesitating before he pushed the front door open and shed the cloak, Ron and Hermione close behind.

Ron started putting up the protective spells as Harry took a tentative step further into the house. His fingers trailed over the date on the yellowed old newspaper and then up to the dusty coat still hanging from the hook on the wall. Ron and Hermione watched him silently as he made his way through to the living room, hurrying to follow as Harry swore aloud. He was in the center of the room, staring up at the gaping hole in the ceiling through which Hermione had fallen. “Is that…?”

“Where I fell? Yes.”

He craned his neck, trying to see into the room above. “So then that’s…?”

“Your nursery, yeah,” Ron answered his second incomplete thought.

Harry ran a hand across his face, and Hermione thought she saw him wipe at his eyes. “Maybe this was a mistake. Coming here.”

Hermione glanced at Ron, but he wasn’t looking at her; he was focused entirely on Harry as he crossed the room to stand beside him. “Say the word, mate,” Ron told him quietly. “We can go whenever you want. Come back again when it’s all over, yeah? Whatever you want. We’re here for you.” Hermione’s heart swelled at Ron’s warm words to their best friend. Harry turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow as if looking for confirmation; after all, she hadn’t shied away from her opinion against coming here, but she nodded her agreement. Harry needed this, she knew, needed whatever meager version of closure the house could offer him.

Harry pulled one of the frames from the wall, staring for a long moment at the photo it held of him and his parents before handing it to Hermione. “Put this in the bag for me?” She nodded and tucked it away. “Let’s go.”

“Are you sure?” Hermione asked gently. “We can stay as long as you like.” Ron smiled gratefully at her, but Harry shook his head.

“No, I’m just...chasing ghosts, being here. They’re gone, and as happy a place as this must have once been for us, for me, it’s just...not, anymore.” Harry sighed heavily as he looked around. “It’s just reminding me how important this is. The mission, I mean. We’ve got to stop You-Know-Who. So let’s get on with it.”

The three of them moved to head back to the entrance hall, but through a gap in the front curtain, Hermione saw something that made her stop cold: an old woman, standing just beyond the gate, staring at the house that, if she were muggle, she wouldn’t be able to see. Even as the witch she must surely have been, their protective spells should have rendered them undetectable from her, but Hermione got the eerie feeling that wasn’t the case. Her gasp halted Harry and Ron as well. The woman was standing very still, and something in her expression sent shivers down Hermione’s spine. “Shit,” Ron breathed, doing his best to look out the curtain without moving it and giving them away. “How the bloody hell do you reckon she knows we’re here?” The fact that Ron got the same creepy feeling from the woman’s indecipherable gaze did nothing to put Hermione at ease.

“I don’t know, but we’ll have to apparate straight out,” Hermione whispered back. “We can’t go outside now.”

“Maybe she can help us.” Hermione and Ron turned as one to fix Harry with identical incredulous stares. “I know who she is.”

Hermione took another glance at the elderly woman, who still had not made any discernible movement. “What? Who is she?” The answer came to her a split second before Harry said the words, though it wasn’t exactly a reassuring one.

“Bathilda Bagshot.”


	32. Chapter 32

“No,” Ron said immediately. He had spent two very long days carefully not arguing with either his girlfriend or his best mate about this, but there was a point at which it would be irresponsible of him not to step in, and this was it. “We need to leave. _Now_.”

“She knew Dumbledore,” Harry argued. “What if he’s given her the sword?”

“Then she can leave it under the doormat for us and be on her way, can’t she?”

Harry scowled at him, but Ron wasn’t budging. Their very presence in Godric’s Hollow was bad enough, as Harry had seemingly agreed only minutes ago, but to actually go out and interact with anyone was out of the question. “Fine,” Harry retorted, “I’ll go.”

“Harry, _stop_!” Hermione cried, the uncharacteristic fear in her voice startling both boys. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Stupid, is it?” Harry rounded on her, and Ron braced himself for a defense of Hermione that he knew she didn’t need from him, but that he fully intended to give anyway. “Have you got basilisk fangs in that bag of yours, then, after all?”

“Mate, you’re just _assuming_ she knows anything about the sword,” Ron cut in, glancing out the window again. The elderly Bathilda was still standing just beyond the gate, swaying slightly on the spot, her stare eerily unfocused and yet unyielding as she watched the front of the house. Though he couldn’t explain how it was possible, or how he knew it to be true, Ron was sure she knew exactly who was in the house.

“Maybe it’s not the sword. But there’s obviously a reason she followed us. Or, me. And I’m not going to just walk away from a lead.”

“I understand, but you can’t just decide to break off on your own whenever we don’t agree on something,” Hermione protested, and Ron wondered if, like him, she was more irritated by Harry’s suggestion that they—again—split up than by his desire to speak to Bathilda. “We’re a team.”

Harry’s gaze flickered almost imperceptibly to Ron, but he held his tongue; Ron almost wished he wouldn’t. If Harry had any lingering feelings of resentment towards Ron over his departure, he’d rather they just get it all out. But Harry’s focus was still on Hermione. “That’s all well and good,” he said slowly, “but I’ve got to follow my gut here.”

“Your _gut_ has gotten us into any number of dangerous situations over the years,” Hermione returned, her tone becoming quite icy. He hoped she wouldn’t actually say it, but Ron was sure her implied reference was to their ill-advised rescue mission to the Ministry two years earlier. “So you’ll forgive me for wanting to take a step back and think about this logically.”

“ _Logically_?” Harry repeated. Ron wondered vacantly if this was how Harry had always felt when he and Hermione had gotten into rows; he couldn’t remember the two of them ever going at it like this, and it was not comfortable as a bystander.

“Look,” Ron said, taking a decisive step forward to physically come between Harry and Hermione, both of whom looked quite mutinous. “How about _I_ go out and speak to her?”

“Ron—“

“I don’t look like myself, Hermione, I can at least find out what she wants.”

Harry sighed. “No offense, mate, but I don’t think she’ll talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“I just...have a feeling she’s here for me.”

“There you go again with these—these—“ Hermione’s hands flailed, casting about for the right words before finally landing on her hips as she fixed Harry with her most Prefect-worthy glare. “—vague insinuations, that you know more than you’ve let on. Honestly, Harry, what aren’t you telling us?”

“Nothing.” Hermione’s frown deepened, which hadn’t previously seemed possible. Harry held his hands up in surrender. “Honest, nothing. I just...don’t believe in coincidences, that’s all.” All three of them turned to look out the window again. Bathilda still had not moved from her post, and the longer she stood there, waiting, the more uneasy Ron became about it.

“Fine. Let’s just go and be done with it, then.” Hermione strode purposefully past Harry, clutching her wand as she approached the front door. “But I’d like to state for the record that I don’t appreciate your little ultimatums, Harry. You know damn well we’re not going to split up again, and threatening such to force Ron and I into compliance is quite despicable.”

“I’m not _forcing_ you to do anything,” Harry retorted, following close behind her. “And I’m not talking about splitting up like…” Harry hesitated awkwardly before continuing, “like before, just that maybe the three of us don’t have to be attached at the hip at all times.”

Hermione halted abruptly just inside the front door and spun to face Harry, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Fine, then, maybe you _should_ just go.”

Harry shrugged, totally nonplussed. “Fine, I will.”

“Knock it off, both of you!” Ron snapped. Hermione turned her glare on him, but unlike Harry, Ron was well accustomed to rowing with her. “We’re not splitting up,” he said firmly. “We’re just not. If you want to row about this later, fine, but it’s nearly dawn, and we need to get this done and get out of here.” He brushed between them and opened the front door, leaving them to follow.

Bathilda gave no great reaction to their sudden appearance on the porch, but Ron thought her gaze looked more focused as her eyes landed on Harry. “Mrs. Bagshot?” Harry called tentatively. She gave the tiniest nod of her head in answer. “Can you help us?” This time, the old witch waved a hand to indicate that they should come closer before turning and starting a slow walk up the lane. Harry went without hesitation, and Hermione let out a huff.

“For goodness sakes, Harry, put the cloak on,” she hissed. He rolled his eyes, but obliged, and Ron and Hermione followed. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered to Ron.

“You can yell at me all you want later, so long as we get out of here in one piece,” Ron returned in an equally low voice.

“That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

The three of them followed Bathilda in silence to a cottage just at the other end of the road from the Potters’. She unlocked the door with some difficulty and entered the house without so much as looking behind her to make sure they had followed; Ron was certain she didn’t need to.

The stench of the house was as sudden and forceful as if they had run into a wall. It smelled _rotten_. There was no other way to describe it. As if the old woman had thrown a mess of moldy food into the rubbish bin and then forgotten about it, and the tiny black insects circling the front room only added to the effect. Harry had already gone with Bathilda further into the house, leaving Ron and Hermione no choice but to follow.

Hermione seemed to be holding her breath against the smell, but she was carefully taking stock of their surroundings. “Good luck even finding the sword here if she’s got it,” she whispered sarcastically. True, the house was a mess. Ron’s mind went back to the cafe in town, to the waitress. It had seemed like she was at least friendly with old Bathilda; wasn’t anyone looking out for her?

Across the room, Ron could see Harry attempting to help light candles in the darkened room, and he saw the old woman’s lips move, but she was too far away for him to hear her words. She started as she noticed Ron and Hermione again, and then looked back at Harry, silent once more. “She wants to speak to me, alone.” Harry looked at the two of them warily, no doubt anticipating another outburst from Hermione.

She focused her attention on the elderly witch instead. “Mrs. Bagshot,” she began, and Ron heard the strain in her voice as she struggled to stay polite. “This is very important. Have you seen Headmaster Dumbledore? Did he give you something for Harry?” She didn’t answer but to continue staring up at Harry. After a moment, she pointed to Harry and then to the staircase on the opposite side of the room. Slowly, she crossed toward it, and Harry walked hesitantly behind her. Hermione looked the exact combination of fearful and angry that Ron was feeling.

“Five minutes,” Harry promised in a hurried whisper before disappearing up the stairs after Bathilda.

“He’s gone ‘round the twist,” Hermione scoffed, naturally gravitating to the bookshelf in the corner. “Oh, look, Rita’s book.” She pulled the lime green paperback off the shelf and cracked open the cover. “ _Dear Batty, Thanks for your help. Here's a copy of the book; hope you like it. You said everything, even if you don't remember it. Rita_ ,” she read aloud. Hermione rolled her eyes and dropped the book with a thud. “What rubbish.”

“Hermione,” Ron began, though not entirely sure what he wanted to say to her. An apology wasn’t exactly in order—they had agreed, hadn’t they, to set aside their new relationship on matters related to the mission—but he could at least give a shot at offering her some comforting words. He knew she was completely opposed to being here, and it was his fault that she was.

She whirled to face him, crossing her arms again. “What, Ron?” she snapped. “We shouldn’t be here. I’m tired, and I’m frustrated, and I’m _scared_. Is that what you want to hear?”

Ron moved to go to her, but in the next instant all thoughts of consoling her were forgotten as a monstrous crash sounded from upstairs and both of them bolted at the sound, Ron taking the stairs two at a time. Barreling into what appeared to be a bedroom, though it was difficult to tell as it was even more cluttered than the lower floor, Ron took in the very confusing and terrifying sight in front of him: Harry, on the floor, wrestling with a giant snake. Bathilda, meanwhile, was nowhere to be found. “She’s the—“ Harry gasped, jerking his head at the last moment to dodge a strike from the snake, whose fangs lodged into the floorboards instead. “Bathilda—Nagini—“

Ron couldn’t make heads or tails of what Harry was trying to say, but the details were irrelevant. As the snake reared again, Ron shot at it the first spell he could think of, and a thin rope shot from his wand to wrap around the snake’s jaw. It managed to let out a menacing hiss despite the makeshift muzzle and whipped its tail around, aiming for Ron and catching Hermione in the face instead. “Hermione!” Ron cried.

“I’m fine!” she called back, though she staggered a bit, and there was now a cut across her cheek that belied her words. She shot a stunning spell at the snake that missed its mark, but now having three people to attack, the snake’s grip on Harry had loosened enough for him to get away.

He had barely made it to his feet before he doubled over, clutching at his scar. Ron and Hermione’s spells were only doing so much to distract the snake; it was clear that Harry was its target. “We have to go,” Harry wheezed. “He’s coming. You-Know—“

Before Harry could even finish the sentence, a maniacal cackle cut through the noise of the snake thrashing about, and there was suddenly a fourth person in the room: the ragged, deranged form of Bellatrix Lestrange. Ron grabbed Hermione’s hand and inched along the wall toward Harry. If they could only reach him, they could apparate away, and they were short on time. Bellatrix and the snake were both entirely focused on Harry, who dove to the floor as a red streak from Bellatrix’s wand hit the wall above his head. “Well done, pet,” she said lovingly to the snake. “You’ve found the boy. The Dark Lord will be so pleased when he arrives.”

Ron’s movement finally caught Bellatrix’s attention, and she turned to face them with another horrible laugh. “I didn’t realize we had company!” she crowed, raising her wand again as the snake coiled at her side. “Friends of the boy’s, are you? Lovely. The boy is to be left for the Dark Lord, but that arrangement doesn’t cover _friends_.”

Hermione gave Ron a hard shove out of the way, and the green jet of light missed them both by inches. “ _Expelliarmus_!” Hermione yelled, but Bellatrix deflected the spell with a flick of her wand.

“Oh, dear, you could at least _try_ a little harder,” Bellatrix taunted. “ _Crucio_!”

Hermione screamed as the spell hit her. White-hot rage surged through Ron, and he lunged for Bellatrix without a second thought, the force of his blow knocking the wand from her hand to skitter across the floor. The snake gave an angry hiss as Bellatrix reached into her robes and withdrew a gruesome-looking silver dagger, seemingly unconcerned about the momentary loss of her wand. “Care to do this the hard way, then?” Ron staggered backwards toward Hermione, noticing from the corner of his eye that Harry had crawled to within just a couple of feet of her as well. Bellatrix let out an almost inhuman growl as she realized that Harry had moved without her notice. “The boy!” she screamed. “Get the boy!”

The snake dove toward Harry at the same moment Ron did, splaying his arms out wide to reach both of his best friends. Not to be outdone, Bellatrix flung the dagger towards them as well, but Hermione already had her wand at the ready. The trio’s hands connected, Ron yelled “Go!” and Hermione disapparated them to the intermingled sounds of Bellatrix’s yell, the snake’s hissing, and a high-pitched scream that could only belong to Lord Voldemort.


	33. Chapter 33

Hermione struggled to sit up, nearly knocking heads with Ron, who was hovering over her on the hard ground. “Are you alright?” he asked urgently.

She could have been much worse, considering, so she just nodded. “Harry?” The answering groan came from her left. Harry was still clutching his forehead, but otherwise he seemed no worse for the wear. Hermione reached up to put a hand to Ron’s face, and he immediately wrapped her up in his arms, placing kisses into her hair.

“Go on,” Harry moaned, intruding on the moment. “Say it. _I told you so_.”

Hermione glanced over at him. He was lying on the ground with his hands covering his face. “Maybe later,” she sighed. “Right now I’m just glad we’re all okay.”

Ron released her and walked over to Harry, pulling him to his feet, and together the two of them began work on their enchantments. “Where are we, by the way?” Ron asked her as they worked.

“Forest of Dean. My mum and dad brought me here once when I was little.”

“You know,” Harry said thoughtfully, as Hermione started pulling the tent out, “I know you said the tent you two were using belongs to your family, but I still have a hard time picturing you camping.”

Hermione shot a light-hearted scowl at him. “We’ve been camping for months, you prat.”

“Camping for fun, I mean.”

“It wasn’t my favorite pastime, but my parents always encouraged trying new things and keeping an open mind. And I brought books, of course.”

“Of course,” Ron and Harry echoed, both grinning at her. Hermione hated to burst the light moment, but they had barely escaped an encounter with _Voldemort_ not ten minutes earlier, and they needed to discuss what had happened. Not to mention address any injuries that the adrenaline of the situation may have masked.

Hermione brought her hand to her cheek, feeling the crust of dried blood there from where the snake’s tail had hit her. The motion didn’t escape Ron’s notice. “C’mon,” he said, moving suddenly more quickly, “let’s get set up and inside.”

Once inside the tent, Harry busied himself in the kitchen while Ron led Hermione to the couch and started pulling potions out of her bag. “It’s not that bad,” Hermione assured him in a low voice. “Nothing I can’t take care of myself.”

“Just because you _can_ doesn’t mean you have to.” Ron pulled the dittany from her bag and unstoppered the bottle. “Now sit still.”

Hermione complied as best she could, but she flinched as the potion stung. “I feel like you’ve done nothing but tend to me since we’ve been gone.”

“You tended my arm for weeks,” Ron pointed out. “And I was horrible to you about it. This is the least I can do.”

Hermione put her hand on his shoulder; she could still just feel the dimple in his skin beneath his shirt where the splinching scar was. “You don’t have to make it up to me, you know. We’re past that, I think. We just do it because we care about each other, yeah?” Ron nodded his agreement and leaned over to kiss her softly, pulling away only when Harry cleared his throat.

“You two need a minute?” he asked with a smirk, setting three mugs of tea on the table in front of them. Hermione suppressed the urge to glare at him as he sat down in the chair opposite the two of them on the couch. “So that was fun,” Harry said sarcastically before turning more sincere. “I’m sorry. You were right. We shouldn’t have gone. And going alone with...whatever the hell Bathilda actually was nearly got me killed.” They all fell silent at the terrifying truth of Harry’s words, and then Ron swore suddenly.

“The bloody snake!” he moaned in response to Harry’s and Hermione’s startled looks. “We were in the same fucking _room_ as one of his damn horcruxes, and we didn’t kill it.”

“We’ve nothing to kill it _with_ ,” Hermione reminded him gently. “And if we’d stuck around long enough to try, we might’ve all been killed by You-Know-Who.” She reached for Ron’s hand, but he shook it off, and she frowned at his reaction as he stood and started pacing the room, tugging at his hair in frustration.

“We could’ve done _something_ ,” Ron went on irritably. “Captured it, or...or, I dunno. Something, anything, other than just letting it go. How the hell are we supposed to end this sodding war if we let chances like that slip away from us? How are we supposed to end _him_?”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to make of Ron’s sudden outburst, and a quick glance at Harry proved that he was just as clueless. “We learned something, at least,” Harry said. Ron glared at him but raised an eyebrow expectantly. “She’s not always with You-Know-Who. She’s not as guarded as we thought.”

“What if she’s not a horcrux, then?” Hermione asked worriedly. “If she were, he’d surely keep her safer than that. What if it’s something else?”

Ron snorted derisively. “She wasn’t exactly in any danger. And You-Know-Who wasn’t far behind her. Should’ve killed her.”

“Ron, we didn’t have anything to—“

“Not the snake,” Ron interrupted Harry, and Hermione was really struggling to follow now. “Bellatrix.”

“ _Ron_!” she gasped. Surely he didn’t mean what he was saying.

“She used an unforgivable on you, Hermione!” he exclaimed, whirling to face her.

“I know that, Ron, I was there!” Hermione stood up and stepped towards Ron. “But that doesn’t mean we have to—“

“We’re in a _war_ , Hermione, do you really think we’re going to get out of this thing without any of us having to...to…” But Ron trailed off, seemingly unable to repeat his thought as his bravado faltered. “I need some air.” He left the tent in a rush, leaving a gaping silence in his wake.

“He’s right, you know,” Harry agreed softly after a moment. “I mean, we all know what _I_ have to do, but...think about it. What if it’d been Ron she cursed? How would _you_ feel?”

Hermione would have wanted to rip Bellatrix limb for limb if she’d laid a hand on Ron, but that was entirely contradictory to the point she’d been trying to make, so she kept the specifics to herself as she returned to her seat. “I would be angry, of course, but I—I don’t want us to lose sight of who _we_ are in all of this. We’re the good guys, remember?”

“We _are_ the good guys,” Harry assured her. “That’s why we’re doing this.”

“Seems a slippery slope, that’s all. Grindelwald’s whole motto was _for the greater good_. But it wasn’t at all, was it?” Hermione sighed and looked at the tent flap. “Should I go talk to him?”

“Dunno. Is that a thing you two actually do now that you’re together?” Harry quipped. “Talk about things instead of letting them fester?”

“Oh, very funny.” Hermione rolled her eyes and half-heartedly flung a throw pillow at Harry. “Is this weird for you? Ron and I?”

Harry shook his head. “Nah. Only been waiting for you two to sort things out for the last _three years_ , at least. And you’ve been bickering like an old married couple since we were eleven.”

Hermione smiled wryly. She’d gotten the same sort of comments before from Ginny; unfortunately any fantasies she’d harbored of becoming _old_ and/or _married_ with Ron were predicated on winning the war. She pushed those thoughts aside and replied, “To answer your question, yes, we are both trying to be better about talking about things.”

“Well then.” Harry nodded toward the tent entrance, but before she could even get up from her spot on the couch, Ron reappeared, the locket dangling from his fist.

“Forgot I was wearing the damn thing,” he muttered.

“Oh, shit, so did I.” Harry instinctively clutched at the spot on his chest where the locket normally rested and then held his hand out for it. Ron looked somewhat reluctant, but handed it over without argument before he looked at Hermione.

“I promised you,” he said meaningfully. Harry looked slightly befuddled by Ron’s statement but seemed to realize the context was something he shouldn’t question.

Hermione stood and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you,” she whispered. Behind her, she heard Harry get up and shuffle off to the loo, though whether out of necessity or just to give them a moment alone, she didn’t know or care.

“I hate this,” Ron muttered, loosely returning her embrace. “Rubbish that I’m the only one who can’t handle it.”

“I don’t think it’s rubbish at all, actually. I think it’s quite brave what you’re doing.”

Ron snorted in her ear. “How do you reckon?”

Hermione pulled back to look at him seriously. “Admitting that it’s too much. Putting the mission ahead of your pride.” She shrugged. “Sounds like a Gryffindor to me.”

Ron’s lips twitched, fighting off an argument to the contrary as Harry reentered the room. “So, where do we go from here?” he asked, resuming his seat.

“I think we should stay put for a bit and regroup,” Hermione replied immediately, tugging at Ron’s hand as she returned them to the couch.

“I don’t mean literally _go_. I mean, what do we _do_ next?” Harry corrected. “Clearly I’m out of brilliant ideas. Did you two have a plan B, after Hogwarts?”

Hermione shook her head, but Ron squeezed her hand and gave a short, sudden gasp. “The key!” he exclaimed.

Harry sat forward, interested. “What key?”

“When we were in your house, the first time,” Ron said as he reached for Hermione’s bag, his tone already returning to normal. “We found that lion, and we found a Gringotts key. But we’ve no idea whose it is. There was only the one key to your parents’ vault, right?”

“As far as I know. And I have it, as well as the key to Sirius’s.”

“That’s what we thought.” Ron finally surfaced with the tiny key and tossed it to Harry. “Any ideas?”

Harry shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, honestly. We’ve got all the same secondhand knowledge about my parents.” Harry held the key to his face, squinting at it. “Must’ve been Sirius’s old key, before his parents disowned him. That’s the Black family crest engraved on the top there.” Harry tossed it back, and Hermione frowned at him.

“There’s no engraving on the key, Harry,” she said as Ron examined it. “We looked.” Ron handed it over to her, and she held the key close, but the gold surface was as unblemished as when they had found it.

“Yes, there is. Let me see it.” Hermione handed the key back to Harry and gasped. In his hand, a tiny crest had appeared on the top of the key, in much the same way that the words had appeared on the snitch at his touch. “You two can’t see it?”

“I can _now_ ,” Ron replied. “Can’t see it except when you’re holding it, though.” He leaned across Hermione to get a better look.

“Is that typical?” she asked him. “Of Gringotts keys?”

Ron took the key back, and they all watched as it went blank again. “Some of the really old family vaults—like the Blacks—have ancient magic attached to them. You know, making sure that only members of the family can get in, things like that. Some of the protections are quite gruesome.”

“So then why is this key responding to Harry, if it belongs to the Blacks?” Hermione questioned. “Harry’s not a member of the family.”

“Or am I?” Ron and Hermione’s heads swiveled to Harry. “I mean, not by blood, of course, but...Sirius left everything to me. That’s why Dumbledore brought Kreacher to my aunt and uncle’s that time: to make sure that the transfer of Grimmauld Place had been successful. Remember?”

Ron nodded. “He’s right, Hermione. Sirius and Regulus were the only ones left carrying the name. But with both of them gone, the magic of Grimmauld recognized Harry as the proper heir to the house. Must be the same with the vault.”

Hermione sat back against the couch, thinking. “But you have Sirius’s key,” she pointed out. “So what’s this one?”

“Sirius got his own vault after he moved out to live with my dad. That’s what I have. So this one must be to the actual Black family vault.”

“Which must mean that Regulus had it,” Ron agreed. “Blimey, you reckon there’s another horcrux in there? He found the locket, after all.”

“And died getting it,” Hermione reminded him. “And why would James and Lily have had it, then?”

They all fell silent, deep in thought. “Is there a way to test it?” Harry asked finally, looking at Ron. “I mean, not like I could just walk into Gringotts at this point, but I’d like to have a look inside the vault. Without, y’know, sprouting seven extra heads or something if the vault fights back.”

“Sure, because ancient family magic is the most troublesome barrier at Gringotts.” Hermione rolled her eyes, and Harry glared at her.

“Humor me, would you?” he retorted before addressing Ron again. “Assuming we got that far...what happens if we’re wrong about the key?”

“Well…” Ron frowned thoughtfully. “Depends on what sort of spells they’ve got on the place. But...put it this way: you wouldn’t want to be wrong.”

“Would the vault even open with the key in the wrong hands?” Hermione questioned. “Or would you be able to get that far?”

“Yeah, it’d open. Might even let you go inside. But I don’t reckon you’d be able to get out. Especially if you tried to take something.”

Hermione looked over at Harry, and she could tell he was considering the possibility. She was, as well; after all, Regulus had clearly known about the horcruxes. Not to mention, he had died without Voldemort ever knowing of his betrayal. How would Sirius’s brother have discovered the horcruxes in the first place? Perhaps he had been asked to hide one...and with the Black family line having technically died out, Voldemort would surely think it safe in an inaccessible vault. The pieces fit. The question remained, just how much were they willing to risk on a mere theory?

“Well,” Harry said lightly, “I guess we’ve got another break-in to plan.”


End file.
